


Born For Adversity

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [5]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alien Culture, Crimes & Criminals, Debt, Dreams and Nightmares, Fist Fights, Getting to Know Each Other, Injury Recovery, Introspection, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Earth Transformers, Punishment, Recovery, Repression, Self-Sacrifice, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 48,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among Minibots, it's traditional that a group of five or six will form a "pace", adopting each other as kin and swearing an oath to remain that way as long as they're functioning.</p><p>Brawn's household is slowly recovering and growing from the ordeal which nearly splintered them; he's proud of what they've accomplished since then, but it's not long before a new face arrives to upset their balance of control...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place approximately ten months after [With Healing On Its Wings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6134803/chapters/14058493), so I suggest reading that first if you get confused. :)
> 
> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one.
> 
> One - the first Minibot to agree to join the proposer's pace; Sequein - the second to agree to join; Trilitare - the third to agree to join; Quanidre - the fourth to agree to join.
> 
> Culumexian - the form of Cybertronian spoken by residents of Culumex, the Minibot city on Cybertron, or the residents themselves.

Brawn was jolted into clear awareness when a sharp elbow clanked against his back. His waking thought was that he and his roommate really needed to get berths instead of recharge slabs on the floor and his next was a curse of resignation as the elbow struck him again.

Turning over, he fumbled in the dark for the recharge slab just a few feet away. “Hey. Hey!” he hissed sharply, finally finding the guilty limb and jarring its owner. “Wake up! It’s a dream, okay? Nothing’s going to happen!”

**::Deiscere! Aicianre, owiyn cylie—::**

Brawn grimaced at the plea and shook him again, following his example and transferring to Culumexian, repeating his previous words. He knew better than to hold onto Huffer’s arm much longer than that, releasing him and scrambling upright, taking a few steps back as his friend lurched upright, stifling a yelp. As Huffer stared into the darkness, Brawn stared at him, waiting for the tension to drain out of him as it inevitably would.

After several kliks fear-glassy blue optics met his and some of the tension did seem to leave with Huffer’s next ex-vent. “Did I hurt you?” he questioned despairingly, wiping a hand down his face.

Settling into a crouch, Brawn smiled reassuringly, hoping it didn’t reveal too much of his worry. “Just an elbow to the back, buddy. Not even a dint.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine, you’re fine…” This wasn’t quite true, but hopefully it would be eventually.

Approximately ten diuns ago, the pace had been separated by the collapse of their sector’s archive building. Several mechs were killed or trapped in the wreckage, Gears and Brawn among them. Brawn’s vents still hitched occasionally from remembering the sensation of helplessness and fear for his mates’ lives. At the very least he’d had Gears’ presence to remind him he was alright. Huffer, digging for them on the outside, hadn’t been so fortunate.

No sooner had Huffer gotten them out that he had been abducted by an Underground faction, influenced and funded by none other than a member of Brawn’s Unraveled pace. Brawn often had stifle his anger at the memory to remind himself of what they had gained from the experience—their **trilitare**.

Windcharger was still acclimating to being part of the household, gingerly feeling out the personalities of the mechs who had taken him in, but with their qualifications, Brawn was sure the mech who had _caused_ the archive collapse would continue to fit in just fine.

Even so, Brawn was worried for his One. Huffer had been a nervous mech since Brawn had met him, but since it all happened, he hadn’t been the same. Nightmares like these were commonplace for him now, as was paranoia, but most of the latter was when they weren’t in the safety of home. Brawn knew he had to give recovery time, but it couldn’t come soon enough for him.

“Want to check in on them?” Brawn questioned. “It’s about time they get up anyway.”

Sighing, Huffer checked his chronometer and chuckled weakly. “It’s 3:45 in the morning, Brawn. They should recharge for a while longer. _You_ should!”

“Nah, we’ve already tried that,” Brawn reminded him. They’d gotten much better about taking time together where they could find it—enough that they could discuss it openly. Huffer read his processor and nodded compliantly, following his suggestion by rising to his feet and shuffling toward the berthroom next to the washroom. Brawn straightened and followed, punching in the code on the keypad installed recently, when he had finally grown tired of Gears locking him out.

Brawn and Gears had more arguments on opposite sides of this door than either cared to admit, but they had since lessened in ferocity with Windcharger’s arrival. Now Gears had someone fresh—someone to complain to _and_ about—and the pace-leader had been delighted to discover that Windcharger could take Gears’ bark and bite with surprising ease. The performer and the supplies manager would often spend their time bantering, leaving Brawn and Huffer to themselves. It was good for all involved.

As the door slid open, Huffer hugged his arms against his chest and ex-vented again in relief upon seeing his friends safe and well, just as he’d expected. Looking past him, Brawn grinned and shook his helm. Windcharger had scooted his recharge slab as close to the sidewall as possible, curled so tightly into his thermal tarp that he almost couldn’t be seen. Gears was the opposite, stretched out comfortably with his arms under his helm, data pads scattered around to fill the empty space between the two.

“Doesn’t seem like sharing the room has disturbed Gears’ recharge as much as he insisted it would,” Huffer whispered. “He’s still got the run of it.”

“Did you expect anything different?” Brawn shot back wryly. “When he comes home, Charger’s too wiped out to argue anymore.”

Huffer’s smile faltered slightly and Brawn almost regretted saying it, but he had learned Huffer really did want him to say what he was thinking and in this case they both knew he was being completely honest. Windcharger was constantly exhausted.

Ever since he’d woken from stasis, their city’s form of prison, Windcharger had buried himself in community service and received nothing for his efforts. He took the dirty jobs willingly, taking the place of workers without a thought for his own health or safety. The public liked to make him suffer whenever they recognized him, for he had caused the deaths of thirteen mechs with the collapse of the building.

It had taken Brawn a long time to accept what Windcharger had done, so he could _understand_ the fiercely hostile reactions of the public when he emerged from stasis to serve them, but that didn’t mean Brawn _liked_ how they chose to take advantage of it. He had accepted Windcharger as one of his own, after all, and to see him work this way always took him aback.

Sometimes Windcharger was commissioned to make other jobs easier, sorting building materials from scraps and carrying each to their separate locations, but his most common jobs were to scour public washrooms, wash out sewer openings, and clear disposal chutes. Gears had nearly purged the first time he had looked out the window to see Windcharger halt on the doorstep, take the time to slough off sewage, and then make a beeline for the wash-racks as soon as he was indoors.

The grime aside, Windcharger’s authorities always chose jobs which used a lot of energy. Two quintuns ago, they had been treated to the nasty shock of finding Windcharger passed out on the floor in the front room, his whole frame reeking of smoke and ozone. After a panicked conference, they had settled on a hospital that wouldn’t ask many questions and taken him there for a diagnosis: his augmentation had been running on fumes, essentially causing an internal eruption.

“I’d been feeling sick since I came out of recharge,” Windcharger had admitted, coaxed back online with an infusion of energon and dielectric oil. “I managed to get home from the scrapyard, but not much farther.”

On two separate occasions, Gears and Huffer had both pulled Brawn aside with the same idea, though their methods and reasons of asking were vastly different.

“I don’t know what that’s like, being _that_ low on fuel,” Gears muttered. “And thank Primus for that; I don’t plan on letting myself decline like that, but…I don’t think it’d hurt if we all gave up a little? Just a little. You’re more capable of that than I am, being—well, _you_ , but it’s not like I’m going to leave it for you to handle without me!”

“I know _exactly_ what that’s like,” Huffer sighed. “I don’t want anyone in our pace to feel that way again. You—you gave me your energon when we first met, Brawn, and I want to do the same for him. If we have to tighten up some credits to get him the fuel he needs, we can do that. We should do that. Can we?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he’d announced to both of them. Gears had frowned, almost looking opposed to the idea simply because Brawn had agreed to it, but he’d nodded. Huffer had shrugged awkwardly, thanked him and then sped back to Windcharger’s room.

Thus the three of them had been taking turns sharing their fuel every three orns. If it prevented another scare like that, it was worth spreading their energies around. Even so, Brawn had yet to bring up his idea about the credits needed for that energy.

 _Now is as good a time as any_ , he decided, tucking his ponderings into a subfolder. It was best not to surprise Huffer with…well, anything. He had learned that the hard way, barely a joor after they had met. “Talk to you for a nanoklik?” he requested, tapping Huffer’s arm and gesturing for him to follow. Huffer nodded and studied their pace-mates for a nanoklik longer before removing his foot from the entryway, letting the door close on them.

The two of them emerged from the house into the cool air, the silence broken by the deep humming of generators powering down. Just as Culumexian workers were waking, their electricity was dying. Brawn halted several yards away from the front door, glancing over his shoulder.

“You coming?” he asked cautiously. Huffer hesitated in the doorway for a solid minute, his optics flickering nervously in the dark, before gingerly shuffling out into the open and halting close to Brawn’s side.

It was good for him to be outside, Brawn reminded himself, even if it meant having to watch him get jumpy. The longer he spent outside and nothing happened, the more he might start trusting his surroundings again.

“What is it, Brawn?” Huffer asked, hurrying to take his processor off what he might be thinking.

“Ah…Gears may be managing our finances,” Brawn began uncomfortably, “but I know when we’re getting tight.” At Huffer’s solemn nod, he faltered, considering how he should offer his proposal. Eventually deciding on the direct approach, he rebooted his vocalizer and stated, “I’m going to start looking for a second job.”

Huffer blinked a few times, startled but seeming to take it well—better than Brawn had expected. “Less time at home?” he asked tentatively. Shifting his weight back and forth, Brawn nodded, expecting the question.

“Yeah, but to be honest, little One, we need the credits,” he rushed on, “Windcharger won’t have an income for _vorns_ to come and even with your promotion to chief engineer, we need a stock to keep. There’s _four_ of us now and you’ve all got needs! You’re looking too slim again and we’ve already run out of Charger’s special oil and with Gears running down every med scanner we own—!”

“I know, I know,” Huffer interrupted. “If you think you can make time, you can do it. Just…see if the good places have _two_ openings. Wherever you might get hired, I don’t want you alone. It’s not safe.” Checking his chronometer again, he remarked, “The market opens early today and Gears made it clear we’re out of Garbage O’s again. Um, will you come with me?”

“Course,” Brawn assured him, earning a grateful smile. _Recovery takes time_ , he recited silently, not for the first or last time. Huffer had promised him ten diuns ago that he’d be with him every step of the way; Brawn was glad to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::Deiscere! Aicianre, owiyn cylie—:: - "Stop! Please, not my family—"
> 
> Ahhh, I told myself I'd wait for a bit before starting this story. Three days later, I've gotten too excited to wait XD


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe I’m the one getting you up in the morning. Did you always recharge this late with your creators?”

“Hey, it’s not like I had a job back then!” Cliffjumper grumbled, turning over and cuffing whatever was closest of the mech shaking him. “Get off of me, Hype.”

With a grunt as the red mech’s careless fist struck his shoulder, Hypervolt obeyed, though he mischievously jabbed him in the back one last time, forcing his optics online. Jerking upright, Cliffjumper swung his legs over the side of his berth and glowered at his blue and gold roommate, who spread his arms out questioningly.

“What? I’m the one who got you the job in the first place; I don’t want my efforts wasted by you staying in, being late, and getting fired!”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Cliffjumper informed him smartly, vaulting from his berth and shoving Hypervolt out of the way so he could examine the contents of the kitchen. This early in the morning, it felt like a long walk to get there. The left side of the hallway stretched the length of five berthrooms—all but two of which were empty—the washroom, and the cybre-glass stairway leading to the roof. On the right side were the guest washroom, the cold energon storage, and the wide dining room. When he emerged from the hallway, there was an open entryway for the kitchen adjoined to the front hall, which served as _another_ dining room and lounge.

“CJ,” Hypervolt sighed, hurrying to catch up, “look, I know you hate the job, but it’s letting you keep all of this, right? I mean, your creators probably don’t plan on helping us out!”

The words took Cliffjumper back six diuns, when his creators had first informed him of their big news. They had treated him to dinner at The Aurora Exhibit, one of his favorite restaurants, which had already roused his suspicions, but it wasn’t until after they had enjoyed a pleasant evening, his guard was down, and they were walking home that the truth finally came out.

_“You’re…moving?”_

_“You heard right. We’re leaving the property and some of our… more substandard belongings,” his carrier, Overbright, explained. “We may very well sell them to the highest bidder.”_

_“Your starting bid will probably scare most of ’em off,” Cliffjumper declared. Overbright’s smile became a bit thin at the words and he held up his hands placatingly. “Alright, sorry. So you’re moving out of the house. Are you plannin’ to go bigger or smaller?”_

_“We’re not only moving out of the house, Cliffjumper,” his sire, Skydive, announced. “We’re moving out of Epistemus.”_

_That finally caused him to falter and halt. Cliffjumper stared at them blankly, repeating, “Out of Epistemus. What’s possessed you to transfer sectors?”_

_“Well…you know we’ve always longed to explore what Solus has to offer…” Overbright ventured. Pursing his lips, Cliffjumper nodded sharply in realization._

_“You’re going to make a name for yourselves. You could’ve just said that.”_

_“There’s also the option that you come with us,” Skydive added. “Solus would appreciate what you have to offer, as would its inhabitants—”_

_“No,” Cliffjumper cut him off before he could finish. “No, this is where I was sparked. Don’t bother putting a bid on the house; I’m going to stay there.”_

_Overbright and Skydive glanced at each other reluctantly, apparently having expected this reaction from their creation. “Alright, then, it will all go to you. You’ll have it to yourself, sweetspark,” Overbright decided. “Perhaps it is time you have some experiences on your own.”_

_Cliffjumper paused, processing this for a minute before he chuckled softly and agreed, “I’ve been thinking that for vorns now.” He was only partially teasing._

“CJ…? Will you be finished zoning out any time soon?” Hypervolt regained his attention, waving a hand in front of his face, which Cliffjumper promptly slapped away as he turned into the kitchen, hoisting himself up to kneel on the counter and rifle through the cupboards, feeling just a touch self-conscious.

He didn’t like coming in here when Hype was with him; it just reminded him that they were running low on several of their essentials. The cold storage was occupied mostly by low-grade and the chrome cake they often enjoyed had run out a quintun ago. Maybe he needed to offer some overtime to his boss, though he almost shuddered at the thought.

“Still have any of the high-grade you managed to find?” he questioned tentatively. How he hated to ask; he was the mech with the job and the house, but his friend was the one supplying their fuel. _I’m doing him_ lots _of favors_ , he mused ruefully.

Hypervolt looked past him and considered the empty space, folding his arms and tapping one hand against the opposite elbow. “We’re all out of that. How about the cesium salami? Is that still on the top shelf?”

“No, we’re out.”

“How about the wheel-nuts?” Hype tried hopefully. “We still have some of those.”

“We _did_.” Returning to the floor, Cliffjumper decided, “We’ll just have to settle for good old energon today. At least we still have the flavor filings!”

They soon seated themselves in the dining room, facing each other across the dining table. It was rather ridiculous that he had kept a table this long and wide when it was just the two of them, Cliffjumper knew, but it was something he and his sire had ordered from a high-class company and they had overseen the making of it. The building class could make many beautiful things and Cliffjumper wasn’t pretentious, but he knew there was some bitterness between those of Nexus and those of Epistemus, the latter often choosing to commission work instead of doing it themselves.

“The fact that our sector is prosperous despite the lack of construction simply proves we’re unconventional,” Skydive had remarked as the cybre-glass table was cut to their specifications. “Besides, Nexus mechs _like_ doing the work, do they not?”

That was the closest Cliffjumper and his sire had ever gotten to _building_ something together, so he kept it as a keepsake. He liked setting his legs against it and tracing the Culumexian runes carved into it with the edge of his foot, but he didn’t have time for that today. He would need to get down to business as soon as possible, so he sat, gulped down his energon and rose again in a matter of minutes.

“Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone!” he warned. Hypervolt rolled his optics and walked him to the door, despite the fact that his cube was still half-full.

“I’d say the same to you! Try to make friends, Cliff.”

“What, you don’t think you count as a friend?” Cliffjumper argued, earning a smile. They both knew this conversation very well. They had repeated it many times, under many circumstances, in many forms, to the point where even having it was just going through the motions. They already knew how it was going to end.

“Of course I count, but I’m no pace-mate and I’m no femme,” Hypervolt reminded him. “You don’t have either and you need both, you loner!”

“All I need are the credits and the energon right now, Hype,” Cliffjumper sighed as the door opened. “Alone is how I like it! I’ll see you later for a game of basketrek!”

That game was how they had met, when Hypervolt had challenged Cliffjumper to a three-joor challenge. Barely a breem into their match, Hypervolt had thrown one of the ballobots much too hard and hit Cliffjumper in the back of the helm, nearly knocking him out cold. When he’d recovered from his daze, he’d chased the mech down.

“Despite what you may think,” he hollered in his face, “basketrek is _not_ Lobbing!”

Cliffjumper chuckled a little and quickened his stride, making a beeline for Nexus. He wasn’t sure what his creators might have thought if they knew he had discovered an employment in the sector adjacent, but Hypervolt had played up the occupation until he was interested.

“The pay is decent and the job’s not hard,” he’d declared, dragging Cliffjumper by the arm across the sectors’ dividing line toward the busy crowd. Cliffjumper had done his best to swallow his nervousness; he’d never had a fondness for crowds of strangers, but since Hypervolt had moved into the home to keep him company, he had already agreed to the interview for the much-needed job.

The mech in charge had taken one look at him and shouted over the din, “You’re hired! Go work the counter!”

“Excuse me?” Cliffjumper gasped.

“Work the counter, I said! Bots want to take a look at something, you hand it to them and take their credits! Go for it!”

Thus Cliffjumper had earned his job at the Nexus-Maximus street market. As Hypervolt said, it wasn’t too hard, but a mech had to keep up. Fortunately this early morning had fewer customers than usual; most were still waking up.

Cliffjumper really, _really_ didn’t like this job. Somehow it managed to be high-speed and dreary at once, but since it was the only job remotely close to his home, he took what he could get. It was a method of proving himself to the Nexus and Maximus mechs, the ones who though Epistemus had no work ethic, not that he ever _mentioned_ he lived in a different sector.

As soon as he reached his stall, Cliffjumper noticed the purple-and-orange mech and his green-and-yellow bodyguard—at least, that’s what their relationship seemed like. The purple one was a regular customer, but something had changed in the last couple of diuns and the green one had started accompanying him on each visit, sticking close to him. Cliffjumper would lean on his counter, watch the purple one jump at nothing and the green one react, pulling him away from whatever had startled him, and he often shook his helm.

_Alone is how I like it!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahaaaaa!!  
> I'm sorry, but I've been reading all of your comments theorizing that Cliff is a prison escapee or a mercenary for hire, some generally criminal mech. 
> 
> He is a grocer XD


	3. Chapter 3

_This…this is so wrong._

As he looked between the schematics and the building in front of him, Huffer felt anxiety simmering through his internals, squeezing his tanks and spark until he nearly felt sick. It risked being tremendously distracting, but he couldn’t let it be, not when what he was overseeing was in such a disarray.

 _Slow and easy,_ he tried to calm himself. _Ex-vent…This is never going to work! We’ll be here the whole orn!_

They were in the midst of adding another wing to one of the most prestigious academies in their sector and from what Huffer could see now, everything was critically wrong. No precautions had been taken, no safety features added, not _one_ of those he had commissioned.

_Ugh, what’s the point of being a chief engineer if no one follows the directions?! Ex-vent…It’s not your fault…_

Even if it wasn’t his fault, he felt responsible. The engineers under him had been in charge of making the additions to the wing and he could clearly see all of the places they had shirked their work. It called for a talk with them. Shutting down the schematic projector, he shoved it into subspace and approached the ones currently taking their break—time they should have spent correcting their mistakes.

“You!” he called sharply. “Sprocket, Hazard, Enigma!” As they lifted their helms, he halted in front of them, jabbing a finger at the building. “What am I looking at? Where are the safety features I requested?”

There was a long pause, during which the three glanced at each other uneasily, seeming to have a silent argument of who should answer. Finally Hazard shifted uncomfortably where he sat and his gaze lowered. “We didn’t put ’em on,” he admitted.

Huffer dropped his raised hand to his waist, ventilating wordlessly for a few kliks and then demanding, “Why not?”

“Because we were tallying how much the extra materials would cost,” Enigma ventured. “All of those support beams…it would bend the budget we had for this project—”

“Bend but not _break_ , correct?” Huffer interrupted. “Listen, you need to get with it, start following my directions! I know you’re new on the job, but you have to understand that this is an important project! It’s important to the entire sector and we have to go above and beyond what’s been supplied to us! We have to reinforce it; we can’t get off with shoddy work!”

“Our work isn’t shoddy!” Sprocket exclaimed.

“But it isn’t safe!” Huffer shot back, some of his desperation finally reflected in his vocals. “We need to reinforce this! This is where sparklings come to learn! If we don’t make it doubly and triply safe, everything will come down—I _promise_ you that.” He hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists. “It’s happened before. So go and find any beams we have left! We need them in order to brace the peak of the roof.”

“We’re on break,” Sprocket protested indignantly. “And besides, we’ve already braced the roof!”

If Huffer had learned anything of this mech, it was that he felt entitled to the last word. Even if Sprocket thought otherwise, Huffer could play that game too. “Brace it _further_ ,” he growled. “Put a beam anywhere there is a space. Do it _now_.”

Enigma and Hazard recognized the menace in that voice and grabbed Sprocket before he could protest further, dragging him off to follow orders. Huffer unwound barely a fraction, struggling to vent evenly.

This wasn’t right—not just the building, but his state of mind. He knew better than to pretend otherwise, but there was only so much one could do to avoid indulging paranoia when they had to work out in the open. Impulsively Huffer glanced toward the demolitionists, his spark turning when he distinguished Brawn among them. It wasn’t too much of a comfort, however, because Gears was nowhere in sight.

In a way that was Huffer’s fault. He had commissioned more materials for the safety of the construction, which meant Gears was busier and busier, bringing the deliveries to and fro between the suppliers and the site. Windcharger was given one orn off out of the quintun and this was it, so at least Huffer could know that their **trilitare** was at home and out of harm’s way. Even so, Huffer didn’t like that Brawn was now striding away from his coworkers, going off alone. Maybe he should go over and check on—

“Now I’ve found you.”

Four words brought an explosion of adrenaline to all systems. Whirling around, Huffer struck the first mech he saw with a well-aimed fist. With a shrill crack, a gush of energon and a strangled cry, the mech who had caught him unawares was laid flat on the ground. Huffer wanted to leap upon him and demand who he worked for, but his fear paralyzed him for a long minute, leaving him aware but unable to react to the yelling of coworkers, looming upon the scene.

“Blitzglitch!” Cloudshift arrived, shoving Huffer out of the way to kneel beside the downed mech. Registering the familiar name, Huffer gasped, moving toward his victim, only to be restrained by several others who must have thought he meant further harm. In lieu of assisting somehow, he hollered at anyone who would listen.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” he implored in a panic. “Blitz, are you—is he okay?! What have I done? Oh, frag, what’ve I done…?”

“Huffer!” Brawn appeared in his line of sight, smacking off the other mechs’ painful hands and replacing them with his own, steering his One away from the commotion. “Calm down, alright? Calm down!”

“B-But I—He came up behind me a-and I—I didn’t know it was—I thought he—” His mouth wasn’t cooperating; he only managed to become more and more incoherent until the memory of how to form words promptly fled his processor and he broke off, staring at his leader with wide optics.

Visibly unnerved by the unexpected change, Brawn gingerly patted his arms where he gripped them. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Guiding him to sit on a nearby stack of sheet metal, Brawn added, cautious but hoping to sound reassuring, “I’ll see what’s happening. Stay here.”

Huffer nodded distantly and his leader tried for a smile, though it was more like a grimace, before heading back toward the workforce gathered around their fallen crewmate. Huffer swallowed hard as Sprocket glared in his direction, apparently disliking the fact that he was late to the action as much as he disliked taking orders. The glare was completely reasonable now, Huffer felt, lowering his helm.

The first time this had happened, he had missed his target—thank Primus, as it had been their friend Rusty, surprising them with a visit. The workers who had seen the near-miss knew to make a bit of noise when they approached him so he wouldn’t startle at their coming. He hated that they needed to do so, but he also appreciated their understanding.

“Hey,” Brawn recaptured his attention, having returned somewhere along the line, “he’s alright—mostly. I must say, Huffer, you caught him good!” At Huffer’s miserable whimper, Brawn recalled he shouldn’t be quite so impressed and cleared his throat a little uncomfortably. “You cracked his jaw. He’s going to the medics to get it reset.” Straightening abruptly, he hissed, “Hightop!”

Huffer leapt to his feet, spark quickening as they watched their manager approach from the gathering. “Huffer,” Hightop greeted, ignoring Brawn for the meantime. “How are you recharging lately?”

Huffer blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. “I…I’m mostly…” He considered lying, but after punching one of Hightop’s best laborers, he decided not to risk being caught at that. “I’m mostly… _not_.”

“I figured as much,” Hightop mused, folding his arms. “Listen to me, Huffer. What you just did was unacceptable.”

“I know, sir,” Huffer concurred, unable to look him in the optics. “And I regret it like you would never believe. I—I’ll pay for the treatment, sir, and if you want to do something like demote me, you’re free to—”

“I asked you to _listen_ , not speak,” Hightop reproached him. Huffer peeked up at him nervously and Hightop’s frown deepened. “I’m concerned for you. Take the orn off and try to rest before tomorrow. Brawn, if you’d like to, you can go with him.”

Blinking back tears of gratitude and shame, Huffer glanced at Brawn and shook his helm minutely. He could see Brawn considering the offer, but with their finances already so tight, they couldn’t afford this. If he hadn’t been so high-strung, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

“I’ll stay,” Brawn concluded, taking notice of the glance. Hightop nodded to the both of them and strode back toward the throng, pushing through them to help Blitzglitch to his feet. “Do you need me to walk you home?” Brawn questioned once their boss was out of audial range.

“I—I don’t know,” Huffer admitted. “I mean…no. Just stay. I’ll be fine.” So saying, he took off before Brawn could press the matter.

 _Fine_ , he chastised himself as he quickened his steps further and further until he was nearly sprinting toward home. _You’re not fine. Nothing is fine and unless you can get it together, nothing will be fine for much too long! Your pace doesn’t need you ruining everything! You’re going to get fired and then where will you be? It’s only a few steps from being in a house to being on a street!_

The longer he berated himself, the longer the journey home felt, so he silenced those thoughts and stuffed them into a subfolder. He was going to do his best to collect himself before Windcharger could ask what was wrong.

Their front door couldn’t open fast enough; Huffer clipped his shoulder on the frame as he slipped inside and went straight for the washroom. Somehow Windcharger was quick enough to catch him before he could enter.

“Hey, Huffer!” Windcharger seemed surprised by his unforeseen return. “I noticed we need to go to the market…”

As Windcharger kept talking, Huffer thought back to their trip this morning, when he had gotten too overwhelmed by the outdoors to stay long enough for any real shopping, despite the fact that it had been his idea to go in the first place. Brawn had understood— _Why is he so understanding?!_ —and taken him back home before the others had come out of recharge.

“…so, since you’re here, do you want to come with me?” Windcharger finished. Huffer gulped, finding his throat had locked up. After a long pause, Windcharger edged past him, remarking cautiously, “Y’know what? I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.”

Once the door slid closed behind the other mech, Huffer’s frame eased. “I wish I could say the same,” he whispered to the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm...PTSD, much? :/ 
> 
> As the one putting them through all of this, I have a healthy appreciation for Hightop, by the way.


	4. Chapter 4

_Every time I find a nanoklik, a customer materializes out of nothing,_ Cliffjumper mused with a sigh. _I should get a raise for going through the same fraggin’ routine every day willingly—or almost willingly. Explain the product, shove it at ’em, take the credits…It never ends!_

Of course he kept all of these thoughts to himself. He didn’t particularly feel like getting in trouble with his manager, as he had occasionally in the past. Most of the incidents with him were about badmouthing customers, but Cliffjumper could recall each instance and he was fully confident that each and every one of them had deserved what he’d given them.

He could only afford to have the privilege every few diuns, so he kept it all concealed behind a smile and a happy tone dripping of either oil or acid, whichever he wanted. It was the only entertainment he could find in this job. Presently he wasn’t sure what the ideal choice would be, so he continued smiling at the latest customer, a sparkling who had decided he would be hard to please, while resisting the urge to drum his fingers impatiently on the countertop. Apparently the sparkling wasn’t too fond of the way Cliffjumper smiled, glowering in return.

“Show me that!” he ordered, pointing. Cliffjumper raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. He had always been well-informed of his own status and his sire had always said never to let another mech be disdainful at him, no matter their age.

He could _easily_ give the little scraplet a piece of processor he would never forget, but he simply reminded himself that this would be another few credits. Those credits and the resulting fuel were worth keeping his mouth shut. Thus he smiled even more widely and thrust the energon goodies indicated close to the sparkling’s face so he could have a nice long look.

“I hate that kind of sweet! Get a better kind for me!” the sparkling spat, pouting at the product. Bravely resisting the urge to roll his optics, Cliffjumper loosened his stranglehold on the energon goodie container and set it down very gently, taking up the rust sticks and offering them, smiling painfully at the growing line of sighing, shuffling bots behind the choosy bot, who made a face at the rust sticks.

“Those look disgusting and there’s not even that many.”

“Let me guess,” Cliffjumper cut in sweetly, “you want something else?”

Screwing up his tiny fists, the sparkling stomped a foot, trying to command some respect. “Don’t interrupt me, vendor! I’m still thinking.”

With the long line behind the little mech, Cliffjumper decided to throw gentility to the Pit, leaning down with bared teeth, through which he spoke. “There’s one thing I thank Primus for every single scrapin’ orn, fledgling. You wanna know what that is? I thank Primus that, despite how I grew up, I didn’t turn out like _you!_ If I don’t have something you like, you can stop wasting these nice adults’ time and look at the slag— _scrapin’_ signs for another vendor who does!”

He had kept the cursing to a minimum and his message had still gotten across quite clearly. The little scraplet blinked a few times, taken aback, and then scurried off. Straightening, prying his fingers from the counter’s edge, Cliffjumper ex-vented lightly and smiled at the femme who approached.

“Good morning. Can I get something for you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Well, you’ve already gotten me a little peace and quiet,” the femme laughed, shaking her helm. “Thank you for that. He’ll be whining to his sire for a few joors.”

Cliffjumper’s satisfaction waned and he shifted a bit guiltily. “Um…heh, that was your—? It…uh…wasn’t my place.”

“Don’t apologize. With the mood he’s been in this morning, he’s needed it,” the femme assured him. Cliffjumper chuckled sheepishly, relieved for her understanding as he turned to get her items from the shelf. She had even _thanked_ him for putting the scraplet in his place! That had never happened, as far as he could remember.

Even so, after taking her credits, he added hurriedly, “Sorry for the cursing.”

“Thank you,” she repeated gratefully.

 _Why can’t_ all _of my customers be like that?_ Cliffjumper wondered wistfully. He didn’t have any time to think about it, as the next buyer was in a hurry to be on his way. It wasn’t anything new, but it still bothered him just as much as it always had and in no time he was stifling more sullen thoughts.

_That’s one way to be ungrateful. No, that’s three ways. Don’t you dare make that gesture at me—oh, I know just what I could use to one-up you, with all five digits! Unfortunately my company has a policy against punching customers._

_Alright, alright, I hear you, femme; you don’t have to screech at me like a sonicondor…_

_What’s your malfunction? How many times do I have to tell you I don’t sell frame polish? Does my stall look like I do? Do I look like I do? Do I look like I’d even know where it is?!_

_Keep it together, mech. At least you’ve got the credits to shop!_

“There’s not enough space between your processor and your vocalizer, Cliffjumper,” his manager had warned the second or third time a report had been filed against him.

“All due respect, sir, what I said wasn’t _that_ bad,” Cliffjumper tried to protest.

“Cliffjumper! You called him a leaking waste outlet!”

Suppressing a bark of laughter at the memory, Cliffjumper handed the mech in front of him his credit stick, which the customer made sure to look up and down meticulously to see if Cliffjumper had tampered with it.

“Like I’d mess around with it while you’re standing right here,” he muttered, slightly too loud. The mech straightened with a glare, snatched up his items and strutted away, causing Cliffjumper to snicker. Some bots were just too much.

It was then that he noticed four or five mechs, tall for their race, standing in a huddle across the way. They weren’t shopping or even talking with each other—in fact, all of them were staring right at him. He refused to display or even accept any unease that might have stirred, lifting his chin and staring stonily back. They started to approach, unhindered now that the market had fewer occupants; it was one of the lulls in the business joors and most of the other vendors had taken off for the afternoon fueling.

Underneath the counter, Cliffjumper clenched his hands into tight fists and waited for them to get in range. As soon as they were, he would lunge. Before he could enact this hastily formulated plan, a red and silver mech meandered into the path of the taller mechs, bumping into one. He apologized immediately, scooting away. The mech he’d collided with watched as he walked past, mouth opening incredulously, and then he glanced at his friends, one of whom nodded, looking just as startled.

Whoever that mech was, Cliffjumper realized, they had recognized him. Barely a nanoklik passed before they were piled on top of the unsuspecting victim, having forgotten all about Cliffjumper in the face of this greater target. The vendor watched in disbelief as four of the mechs all snatched at the smaller mech’s limbs, wrenching and beating on the plating so sparks flew and dents remained. From the looks of it, they were quite literally trying to tear him apart.

The red and silver mech hollered and thrashed, kicking one of the attackers in the throat so his grip loosened and then slamming the same foot into his face. That leg hooked around the next mech closest, steering him into the mech across from him, holding onto the opposite leg. With his lower limbs freed, he pedaled them and scraped his feet across grooves in the ground, trying to put in enough motion that the mech still detaining his arms would let go. He had forgotten the fifth mech, however, who had armed himself with a solid stake, which he smashed down on the target’s shoulder, earning a hoarse cry of pain.

As soon as he saw the armor concaving and the telltale blue of energon, Cliffjumper vaulted over the counter and charged, wrapping himself around the arm holding the stake and twisting it out of socket so the mech yelped and the stake fell to the ground, clanging like a warning bell. The other arm came reeling at him and he dropped from his perch to the ground, sweeping the enemy’s legs out from under him with his own. Springing nimbly upright, he revved his engine threateningly at the three mechs scrambling to their feet to face him, but before either party could rush, Cliffjumper heard a voice shout at him.

“ _Down!_ ”

Without a thought he dropped, watching with wide optics as the three mechs were propelled several yards by some unseen force. Twisting around while still keeping low, Cliffjumper watched the red and silver mech regain control, hands outstretched, optics blazing with bitterly blue light. It was then that Cliffjumper recognized him—more specifically, he remembered his augmentation—and he realized why the party had assaulted him. When he looked past the criminal, he could see the two mechs left over fleeing. Once their prey followed Cliffjumper’s gaze and noticed as well, he slumped against the nearest stall and clutched his shoulder, hissing through his teeth. Though it was the worst of his injuries, he was badly dented and leaking energon in various areas. At least he was upright. Cliffjumper rose as well, kicking away the stake.

“Thank you,” the other mech murmured, faceplates tight with pain.

“I just evened the odds a little. Besides, I didn’t do it for you,” Cliffjumper shot back. If he had remembered what he’d seen on the news of this mech beforehand, would he have intervened?

“Then why…?”

Mouth twisting in distaste, Cliffjumper kicked the rod a second time, declaring, “I don’t like bullies.” With this he waved a hand distractedly and strode away. If the mech was upright, he could probably get home. In any case, there was someone Cliffjumper needed to see.

“Long Run,” he greeted solemnly, tapping a foot against the front step of the prestigious house. The owner shook his helm as soon as he recognized him.

“No, Cliffjumper, I’m not lending you any more credits!” he announced, turning on his heelstrut.

Pursuing uninvited just before the door slid closed, Cliffjumper barely gave the beautiful interior a glance as he protested, “I need them to refuel, Long Run, and I told you I would pay you off, didn’t I?!”

“Yes, but _when?_ ” his loaner demanded, whirling back around to face him. “I’ll tell you when: I want it now!”

Cliffjumper grimaced; it was his turn to shake his helm. “I can’t do that.” He hated to admit that, which was why he would never admit the reason behind it: three other loaners had already said the same thing. “Please,” he continued, wishing he didn’t have to sound so pleading. “I can get what you need. Just…you have to spend some credits to earn some credits back, right?” Long Run ignored him, starting up the stairs to the second level, and Cliffjumper’s entire demeanor changed—he straightened, slowed, and smoothed his plating and tone into cool complacency.

“I can get what you need,” he repeated in a drawl. “You don’t need to send your armaments to tangle with me.” Long Run’s hand paused in its slide along the handrail and Cliffjumper approached at a stroll, but his optics were icy. “Yeah, I knew who it was the klik I saw them. Not only that, I _beat_ them. I didn’t want to, but they hurt one of my clients. And now that your minions are out of the way, you know I’m not going to let this one go.”

He waited, spark racing, as Long Run gradually returned to the bottom level, glaring at him as he seized two low-level credit sticks from a drawer. “You have a quintun then, Cliffjumper,” the loaner announced warily. “You’d better make this last until then.”

Cliffjumper nodded courteously and turned for the exit, hoping Long Run didn’t notice just how tightly he clutched his precious new possessions.


	5. Chapter 5

If asked, Gears would never admit he was surprised by the reception he earned when he came back from the warehouses supplying their materials. Several of his coworkers studied him warily, seeming to wonder about his mood. Of course this did nothing to _improve_ his mood, so Gears frowned back and they returned to their business—all of them except the pair of resident gossips, who ambushed him just as he was about to find Brawn and Huffer and ask which one of them would pay for the afternoon fuel.

“Gears, Gears! Did you hear what happened? Does the bootleg have something against Blitzglitch?” Roadblock demanded eagerly. At Gears’ warning glower and tightening hands, he chuckled a bit nervously and amended, “ _Huffer_ , I mean. Did he do it for the Unra—er, Brawn? Was he ordered to or was there an old score to settle? You would know if there was, right?”

“I don’t know what the frag you’re talking about,” Gears stated flatly, letting no trace of his rising curiosity show. “Care to explain or should I be spending my break time lubing my cable relays?”

“You don’t know?” Roadblock’s partner, Splice, echoed incredulously.

Throwing up his hands, Gears announced, “I’m going for the latter option.” As soon as he started to shoulder between them, Splice pawed at his arm to stop him.

“He punched him!” he hissed overexcitedly. “Blitz went over to discuss the roof paneling with him and as soon as he said a word, Huffer spun around and bashed the slag out of him! Blitz got sent to the medics and Huffer—well, he’s _mysteriously_ disappeared.”

Mouth twisting skeptically, Gears looked between them, analyzing them for any indication of a lie. He’d come to know them well when he was in charge of the site and it wasn’t too surprising for them to put together a scandalous story for attention, but that didn’t seem to be the case this time. He reeled his EM field close to his chassis before they could read his concern.

“I’ve gotta refuel,” he told them, striding away and leaving them wanting for a reaction. Behind his calm exterior, his processor was racing. For a while now he had been exasperatingly aware of his pace-mate’s recent mood swings—none of them too happy. What he wanted to find out was Brawn’s take on what Splice and Roadblock had said. He would avoid his friend for now, in case he was brooding about what Huffer had done, and be sure to ask once they were home, away from the prying optics and audials of their coworkers.

After checking out from work, Gears arrived home before Brawn did; the pace-leader had mentioned he had a few different places to be and urged Gears to go home without him. When he did, he found Huffer gripping the edges of the table holding their comm. system, enunciating clearly on a specific wavelength of the links.

“Windcharger, where have you been? Where are you now? You haven’t checked in yet and I’m worried. Please call,” he pleaded.

Gears rolled his optics, mumbling, “Hello to you too, Huffer,” before moving past him toward the berthroom he shared with the absent mech. It wasn’t anything new to have Huffer buzzing in their audials, demanding their location in increasingly panicked tones until they finally snapped at him. Then he would take on the pathetic voice and explain himself, which made them feel guilty for getting angry. Gears was confident this would be the case with Windcharger now.

Upon entering the berthroom, Gears glanced between the recharge slabs on the floor and the mess surrounding them. It had taken him a long time to adjust to Windcharger’s presence; he hadn’t shared a room for as long as he could remember and he had insisted to Brawn and Huffer that his recharge was going to suffer for it. They had been infuriatingly unsympathetic.

“ _We’ve_ been sharing a room for vorns now,” Brawn reminded him. “It’s only fair that you spend a little time doing the same.”

“A little time?” Gears grumped. “He’s not exactly going to go away, is he?” He paused, considering their options, and then brightened to some extent. “Maybe he could recharge in the kitchen.”

Brawn had burst out laughing at the suggestion, causing Gears to seethe. Huffer had done his best and failed miserably to hide a smile as Brawn remarked to him, “At least he didn’t say he could recharge in the washroom!”

“That’s right!” Gears snapped. “I’m being generous.”

Huffer gave him a chiding look, folding his arms and tapping one foot expectantly. “Gears, being _generous_ will be sharing your room!”

Thus he’d given in and, just as he’d predicted, the first night was torture. He still clearly remembered burrowing deeper into his recharge slab and cradling his audials to drown out the unending, rattling drone of the other mech’s systems. The night after that, the rather unrested and prickly Gears had made it clear to a self-conscious Windcharger that he needed to do something to shut himself up or Gears might have to take extreme measures.

“If I mute my audials for too long a time, I’m going to go deaf,” he proclaimed crossly. “And if I have to listen to you _vibrate_ for the all-too-long foreseeable future, I’ll go deaf! The only way I wouldn’t go deaf is if I attack the spark of the problem.”

“I get the message,” Windcharger assured him. That night he had put as much distance between them as possible, muffled under a few thermal tarps. While Gears didn’t enjoy giving up the tarps’ warmth, at least he could recharge. After a few quintuns, he’d gotten used to Windcharger, not that he would ever admit it to Brawn and Huffer. How they had managed it from the start, he had no idea.

“Ridiculous,” he grumbled without any real heat as he stacked his prized data pads. “They constantly try to put me in my place—their words, not mine!—and yet they expect me to make the same sacrifices they do. They ought to make up their processors! Do they want me to be like them or don’t they? I wonder how they’d get on if I were to relocate without telling them first! I could be just as ridiculous as they are!”

This idea was utter scrap, of course, and he knew it without a doubt. They were his pace-mates and he wouldn’t trade them for anyone or anything, no matter what they did to anger or surprise him.

A sudden clatter from the other room and a pained grunt made him perk up. A choked pause lasted for just a klik or two and then Huffer ventured in horror, “Ch-Charger?”

Gears hadn’t heard him use _that_ voice since the orn Windcharger was arrested. Promptly dropping what he was doing, Gears made a beeline for the front room. Though Huffer was paranoid, the dread in his voice was unquestionably the kind that could be warranted and as soon as he laid optics on Windcharger, Gears knew it was.

“Windcharger!” he burst out in alarm, rushing to help their limping **trilitare** toward the nearest recharge slab. One of Windcharger’s legs didn’t or couldn’t cooperate, falling out from underneath him so he dropped where he was. Gears tried to control his fall, maneuvering him so he was propped against the wall, briefly cringing at the sticky energon under his fingers.

“What happened?” Huffer demanded. Windcharger didn’t answer right away, so Huffer crouched beside him and batted Gears’ hands away, taking charge. “Gears, find whatever you can to stop this leaking!”

Nodding jerkily, Gears leapt to his feet, skidding toward the washroom and taking up a shammy, which he used to hurriedly wipe his hands before he tossed it across the room to the One. Huffer pursed his lips as he pressed it against Windcharger’s mangled right shoulder, causing the damaged mech to gasp in distress.

“Frag!” Huffer cursed as the synthetic cloth soaked. “We’ll need more than this! We need some sealant; we’ll have to take him to a medic!”

“No, no!” Windcharger groaned desperately. “We—we can’t afford that…”

“And you can’t afford to lose this energon!” Huffer countered. “You _have_ to go!”

Gears fidgeted helplessly for a few kliks, weighing his options, and then surrendered to the necessity of the situation, sprinting toward one of the panels near the front door and tearing it off to reveal the secret compartment behind. He began digging through his stash of medical supplies, unsure of what they needed.

“There,” he called, tossing a fresh packet of towels over his shoulder in their general direction. “And there—and there—and _there_ —”A welder, a mesh grafter, and a full box of Beta particle painkiller chips followed. Glancing over his shoulder, Gears noticed but made no comment on the astonished expressions his pace-mates wore. “I have three grades of medical sealant,” he informed them urgently. “Which one do you want?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, rolling all three canisters across the floor and then arming himself with an Orbit buffer. How he hated to use such a quality tool in this situation, but if Windcharger depended on it, he would.

“Just don’t,” he warned as Huffer opened his mouth to question the buffer, which he set aside in favor of the second-degree canister of sealant. “This is going to be cold,” he told Windcharger solemnly, “and it’s going to hurt.” So saying, he moved aside the wet shammy and pressed the container against the largest gap of the plating he could find, injecting the sealant underneath the plating. Windcharger shivered, clenching his teeth securely as the sealant expanded and froze to close the leaking cracks. Gears continued the process with the smaller wounds and then leaned back on his heels, ex-venting slowly. To feel a bit more useful, Huffer stripped his recharge slab of its thermal tarp and wrapped it around Windcharger’s shoulders before handing him a painkiller chip to insert into his wrist.

“Some mechs recognized me,” Windcharger muttered as he did so. “They knew who I was and what I did and apparently they thought I didn’t serve enough time.”

“When and where did it happen?”

Windcharger glanced fleetingly at Huffer and then focused his attention on his knees, admitting quietly, “At the market.”

“The market?!” Huffer echoed, dismayed. “That was joors ago!” Windcharger nodded and Huffer blinked several times, sinking down next to him and clutching his arm. “It—it’s my fault then. I sent you there, Charger!”

“I went on my own,” Windcharger shot back. “I should’ve known it would happen sooner or later.”

“We _all_ should’ve,” Gears agreed grimly, rising to his feet and striding for the door, grateful when neither asked where he was going.

By the time he reached his destination, Gears discovered that his wrath had only increased. In the past he had been told by the occupants of the house that they didn’t mind if he confided in them about it and he fully intended to do so.

“Gears! It’s good to see…” Rusty trailed off as soon as he registered Gears’ stormy expression. “Why don’t you come inside?” he offered rhetorically, stepping aside. “My pace-mates and I were just preparing the evening fuel.”

“Where’s Polevault?” Gears asked as he entered the spacious home, which only served to remind him again that he had come to vent.

“Just a nanoklik.” Rusty came back to him with the femme on his arm and while Gears felt a little guilty for how swiftly Polevault’s smile fled at the sight of him, he couldn’t find any reason to coax it back.

“Gears, what’s wrong?” Polevault probed tentatively, reaching for him. Shrugging away, Gears began walking the length of the room, shutting out the clatter of Rusty’s pace-mates in the room adjacent.

“The better question would be what _isn’t_ wrong!” he seethed. “This orn has been horrible. Huffer punched one of our coworkers, cracked his jaw, and they both got sent home! Brawn’s missing in action—Primus knows where, doing Primus knows what—and Windcharger…Frag, Windcharger went to the market, got ambushed and beaten to scrap, and then had to drag himself home afterwards!”

“Is he okay?” Rusty demanded.

“He’s just great,” Gears spat. “We’re all great! On top of all that, we’re suffering fuel deprivation! We’re too—too _poverty-stricken_ to afford anything! I’ve had to share my energon, my medical supplies, my room! I’m fed up, my pace-mates are fed up, and none of us can do slag about it!”

Rusty and Polevault shared a glance which made Gears fume a little hotter, despite their good intentions. Before he could continue, Polevault remarked, “Well, I’m sure we have a cube to spare tonight.”

“You’re right, sweetspark,” Rusty agreed. “You’re our guest tonight, Gears. Come and meet my pace and after we fuel, you can take a few cubes home to yours.”

Gears didn’t want to think of this offer as charity. It was just the pace’s friends being hospitable and he could take interest in that, so he filed the rest of his list away for another time and followed the couple toward the bright dining room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only Chapter 5 and Gears is going off...It's only the beginning!
> 
> And yes, you read that right: Rusty and Polevault are a couple. They needed each other. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

His impromptu appointment with Long Run yesterday had allowed Cliffjumper to get seven high-grade energon cubes, which was…meager by the standards he once had. Now it was nothing short of a _blessing_. He growled as he stirred his energon at the table, watching the ripples in it. It was humiliating, thinking ordinary fuel was a blessing, but aside from Hypervolt no one knew him well enough to be aware of the indignity of it all.

 _Stop pouting, you glitch_ , he berated himself, sipping quietly and keeping his hold on the cube loose so he wouldn’t crack it. _It’s beneath you. There are bots out there with it worse. You’ve got this fraggin’ house and a fraggin’ job—this fraggin’ orn off—and this is fraggin’ high-grade! Since when d’you have the right to pout?_

He considered his own question, wishing it was rhetorical even as the answer came to him: _Since the first of Long Run’s credit sticks is half-empty now._

Scoffing in a pedal tone, he glanced up as Hypervolt entered the dining room, rotating his shoulders and glancing at the energon Cliffjumper was drinking. “High-grade,” Cliffjumper informed him unnecessarily. “It’s in the cold storage if you want some.”

“Sounds great,” Hype agreed gratefully, promptly skirting around the wide table toward the entryway joining the dining room and the storage area. Frost wafted into the larger room as the storage slid open and Hypervolt shivered in delight. “Nothing like a chilly cube to shake off recharge, right?”

Cliffjumper shrugged noncommittally. Oftentimes they could shake off the recharge simply by going _into_ the cold storage, but whenever they did that, it was to stare forlornly at how empty the cold room was. He could now hear Hype rummaging around, making appreciative noises at the cubes.

“I hope you’re not talking to your breakfast, Hype!” he called. “If you’ve gotten deluded some time since yesterday, I’m locking you in there.”

His friend answered him with an unintelligible grumble and Cliffjumper smirked a little, sipping his cube and shuttering his optics, letting the taste soak in. He needed to savor this, but despite the general stories, this wasn’t the type of grade to savor. This was the type of high-grade that left a mech wanting _more_. Cliffjumper had been raised on it, so he swallowed the last of his cube and rose, seeking another.

Hypervolt was crouched near the energon cubes, trying to decide which one he wanted. His smirk broadening, Cliffjumper loomed quietly behind him and promptly booted him in the back, trying to knock him off balance. To his glee, Hype did startle, arms pinwheeling, but it was a little disappointing when he didn’t fall. Instead he straightened, shoving Cliffjumper back.

“If you want me to break all of these energon cubes by falling on them, why’d you bother buying them in the first place?!” he demanded indignantly. The red mech chuckled, folding his arms.

“I’m puttin’ you off your game, obviously.”

Hypervolt’s optics ignited with realization. “You think if you aggravate me enough, I’m going to lose the basketrek matches later! Ohh, you are _so_ wrong, my friend; you’re not aggravating me! You’re being petty!” Half-turning, he gestured to the stacked cubes, pleading dramatically, “Don’t bring the energon into it!”

Cliffjumper refused to let his smile falter even as he huffed, rueful and trying to shrug it off. “Well, if the energon doesn’t come out intact, I have one measly credit stick left to replace it.”

Hypervolt wasn’t as adept at controlling his expressions; in fact, his entire demeanor dimmed at the mention of it. “Cliff…” Straightening, he ran a hand down his neck cables and fidgeted slightly, venturing, “I’m sorry I can’t help out more. I’m really trying to find a job; I kind of forfeited the one at the market by giving it to you and I don’t regret that!” He laughed softly, putting in, “It’s worth watching you bark and bite at the stupid bots who cross you.”

Cliffjumper searched for some kind of response to that, but Hypervolt folded his arms, putting a barrier between them as he concluded uncertainly, “I just don’t know where else to look. To find a job that suits me and all my nonsense, I’d probably have to go a whole different _sector_ and then we’d have to pay for the mileage too and—”

“It’s fine, Hype,” Cliffjumper cut in, distinctly uncomfortable with this conversation, just as his companion was. They didn’t usually discuss this so openly. “It’s fine. Every byte helps.” He never thought he would be saying those words, but there they were. Since he was flustered, he decided to abandon the idea of a second cube, turning and throwing over his shoulder, “Thanks for doing what you can.”

From there the housemates were quiet, but once they were fully fueled on their cold, sweet energon, Cliffjumper gave Hypervolt a lopsided grin.

“About time we got down to business, isn’t it?”

“You know it, CJ. Prepare to have your exhaust pipe handed to you on a platter!”

“You can blow that talk through _your_ exhaust pipe.”

The basketrek courts were in fact remodeled pavilions, set with iron pillars which were topped with a cybre-glass dome. The cybre-glass was cut to be multifaceted, reflecting the sunlight or moonlight so the courts were almost never _fully_ dark. The courts were large, spanning half the length of the market where Cliffjumper worked. He wasn’t particularly awed by them, but he appreciated their roominess.

They also hadn’t been built to be immediately adjacent to each other; they were connected only with twisting iron paths, which made sprinting toward the goals that much harder. In order to play basketrek as it was meant to be played, a mech had to have strength, speed, and endurance to _keep_ that strength and speed up for the entire game.

As they neared the pavilion, Cliffjumper distinguished his team and Hypervolt’s; most of them had already arrived. Fleetingly he waved at Hype’s teammates, who rolled their optics even as they returned the gesture. Cliffjumper didn’t have malice toward them, even if they were constantly trying to show him up; they kept that attitude on the courts.

 _Of course, we’re on the courts now_ , Cliffjumper reminded himself, hesitating for a nanoklik before handing what remained of his first credit stick to one of the mediators overseeing the courts. It wasn’t often, but there would always be a few troublemakers who either got a little too competitive or had an optic on the credit sticks used to rent the courts, thus the need for security.

Once his credits were in the loving care of the safeguard near the entrance, Cliff headed for the ballobot rack, settling his features into his usual competitive grin, which most of his own teammates admitted could be rather unsettling, even if they were on his side. _Nothing like a cheery face to get them off balance_. Crouching, he examined the ballobots intently before finding the one he usually used, patting its side.

“Well, hello again,” he greeted as the ballobot spun itself against his hand. “We’ve got some work to do on these bots, my friend. Somehow they still aren’t gettin’ the hint.” Chuckling, he pulled the ballobot from the rack, dribbling it lightly against the ground to get it warmed up. “Let’s go for Cinder first. He tends to swat his ballobot too hard; maybe we can turn it to _our_ side.”

That was another risk of basketrek: depending on how they were treated, the ballobots could change alliances incredibly quickly. One minute a mech would be dribbling it and the next the ballobot ricocheted from their hands, practically throwing itself at another player to be used on a whim. Despite the constant complaints of this, Cliffjumper was quite self-satisfied to say that ever since he’d begun addressing them directly, treating them as living creatures, a ballobot had never turned on him. If there was one thing Cliffjumper hated more than his job, it would be the abuse of someone or something weaker.

“After we turn Cinder’s ballobot,” Cliffjumper continued in a low voice as the players lined up, “we snatch up Sideline’s. He can never keep a handle on it anyway; he’s got lubefingers. His brother, Lifeline, always uses his to feint left. We go to meet him and you can knock your little buddy off to the side. Agreed?” He didn’t receive any audible answer, but the ballobot warmed to his touch, staying close and returning faithfully as he bounced it.

Cliffjumper and his team proceeded to win five out of the seven basketrek games they had scheduled; the games were relatively short by Culumexian standards, but that was only the case to keep the rush high and the boredom down.

Even so, it was gratifying for Cliff to sink down a few yards away from the rack, one arm tucked around his loyal ballobot while others rolled close to his feet, occasionally bumping him in congratulations. Panting, he grinned at them, pride curling around his spark.

When was the last time he’d felt like this? He couldn’t quite pick a time, but it had to be somewhere before his creators had moved away.

 _Ahh, but it’s not like you miss them_ , he reminded himself with a huff, sipping the medium-grade energon cube included in the cost of the courts. _They haven’t even messaged you to say if they’re settling in—or even to ask if_ you’re _settling in!...But what would I even tell them if they did ask? No?_

“You’re getting that ‘financial face’ again,” Hypervolt cut into his thoughts, optics scrunching up in distaste as he leaned down to stare at him. “I’m serious, CJ, no femme’s going to smile at you again if you keep that face up. You look like that energon you’re drinking just expired!”

“Really?” Cliffjumper snarked, jerking an arm up and splashing what remained of the energon cube on his friend’s contorting features. “Oh, look, now your face’s as bad as mine!” He regretted wasting a cube that way as soon as he did it, but revenge tasted just as sweet as the fuel might have been. It was medium-grade anyway.

Wiping off his face with a shammy, Hypervolt asked dryly, “You and your ballobot are real cute sittin’ there, but…shall we move on?”

Cliffjumper ex-vented slowly, rolling his shoulders in a half-shrug. “I don’t know, Hype; I don’t think we should be spending any more…”

“No, it’s okay! Every byte helps, you said, right?” Tossing aside the shammy, Hypervolt shifted his weight eagerly. “I just called ahead and the mech who runs the place is offering us a deal. C’mon, you can consider it your last boost before you have to go back to work!”

That was what he liked about Hype, Cliffjumper was reminded again as he shrugged again, patted his ballobot goodbye and acquiesced. The other mech could put an optimistic spin on almost anything. Cliffjumper wasn’t a pessimist, but he was a realist, and maybe he needed a friend who could do that for him.

 _We shouldn’t be here_ , he mused anyway once he and Hypervolt reached their last stop for the orn; dusk was falling around them, which meant they were likely the last customers before it got too dark to be safe. When he and Hype still had a full stock, they had been in here almost every quintun, staying out as late as they were allowed.

“Go ahead and suit up,” Hypervolt urged as they passed through the main gate. “I’m going to thank the manager.”

“Sure thing,” Cliff agreed. It didn’t take him long to find his glider and put it on, but he had to walk around a bit to adjust to the weight of the wings. It was still a startling thought to him, as a grounder, that some of his people had these on their back full-time. How could they walk with the counterbalance?

 _We shouldn’t be here_. Again he pushed the thought away; it was even stranger that he could feel both excited and anxious about this at once. As he walked back and forth, oiling up the wings, he glanced at Hypervolt and the manager still at the gate, peering closer when he saw his friend handing off a credit stick. He was saying something, almost inaudible at this distance.

Had he said four- _hundred_ credits? It couldn’t be. Cliff knew Hypervolt would have been in quite a panic if he’d had to put that much of their fund toward this, and his friend was still smiling and shaking the manager’s hand. _You’re definitely not a lip reader_ , the red mech reminded himself as Hypervolt jogged to meet with him, questioning, “You ready?”

“I was sparked for it,” Cliffjumper assured him gamely. “After all, my sire’s name is Skydive!”

Once Hypervolt had his own retro-wing glider strapped on, the pair made their way up several flights of stairs to the highest point on the gliding range. The wind was high and cool up here, perfect for what they were about to do. With a shared glance, they jumped, their rented wings serving them well as they spiraled across the range and toward the city.

Cliffjumper would never admit it, but this kind of experience was more emotional for him that most would think. As the light generators came on below, first in faraway Alchemist and then spreading to Solus and Nexus on two sides, it was almost like he was suspended; the light from the ground was the sky and the sky at his back was the soft darkness, coaxing him down. He obediently drifted lower, optics lingering on Solus, which easily shone the brightest.

 _Wonder if Skydive and Overbright are gliding over there._ He paused, blinked, and shook his helm free of those thoughts. This time was for him and by the Primes, he was going to enjoy it like he owned the sky. Thus decided, he tugged on the titanium cables close to his hands, pulling on the thrusters fixed to the wings and burning fuel, heading straight up toward the stars and howling in excitement. Hypervolt followed, topping it off with a fancy somersault as he reached Cliffjumper’s height and then coasting. Accepting the challenge, Cliffjumper threw himself into higher gear with just one thought:

_My last boost…Now it’s time to bear down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I'm sooo sorry for the delay of this story! Much like Cliff, I've been enjoying my vacation and now it's time I get back to work and give you a reward for your patience! I hope you enjoy. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

_It’s about time you graduated._

_No one would forgive you. They would sooner Unravel a pace to distance themselves from you than forgive you!_

_Everything I’ve done…Nothing can make up for what I did._

_“My question is how you’re supposedly not involved? How did you not know what your pace was doing? Pace-mates always know!”_

_“I’ll see them at night, I know I will! Don’t you?!”_

_“Oh, yes! Tell me, then: what will be one more?!”_

Windcharger lurched online from hard recharge, clutching at his damaged shoulder and biting back a groan as he tried to sit up. It took him a minute or so but as he woke more fully, he registered the harsh humming emanating from his hands, which he methodically folded as he tried to ex-vent through his stress.

True to his word, Windcharger’s nights could be anywhere from restful, but he always had to try getting rest since he would be making up for the source of his nightmares any way he could the next orn. That knowledge never seemed to stop his processors, however. At least one night a quintun, he was forced to relive the terrible instant—watching the Nexus Archive come down.

It wasn’t something he would soon forget. As the stress-humming of magnetism finally started to recede, Windcharger mouthed thanks to Primus. He was sure his delicate standing would only decline if he had gotten caught up in his dream, unconsciously lashed out and hurt someone. Even if he was forgiven, it would just be one more thing to trouble him.

Cautiously he glanced at the mech who, for reasons beyond him, continued to recharge in the same room despite the danger. By some miracle Gears hadn’t stirred, still stretched out comfortably against the opposite wall. Despite all appearances of peace, however, Windcharger knew he wasn’t the only one to suffer nightmares here.

Windcharger easily had the most sensitive hearing among their quartet; it wasn’t hard to bring him out of full recharge with just a couple of thumps. Not long ago, he’d uncurled himself and turned over to find Gears trembling so violently it could be seen even in the dark. He’d been unsure about waking him, simply because he knew Gears would snap at him for interrupting his recharge as soon as he was alert, but the ragged whimpers that started a few kliks later had made up his mind.

He’d simply touched his shoulder and Gears had come out of it swinging, though the blow missed the performer’s face so narrowly he could feel the rush of air. After tumbling back to put some distance between them, Windcharger hissed, “Hey, it’s just me!”

Once Gears registered his voice, Windcharger had expected the walls to go up, braced himself for the biting remark. Instead Gears simply hugged his arms around his knees, making himself look smaller than usual. His optics were soft and whitish-blue as he shook off his fear. Windcharger had only seen him like this once: in the hospital, just after he had killed an old enemy of Brawn’s.

Sure enough, Gears’ only words had been “It doesn’t ever stop, does it?” and Windcharger, not at all exempt, hadn’t been able to answer him. The distressed murmurs from the front room hadn’t escaped him either.

It was beyond Windcharger to figure out how he could feel both the deepest of gratitude and the deepest of shame at once. By all accounts of the public, he shouldn’t be alive, much less be here in a pace’s home—much less be here _in a pace_.

Their asking style was a bit unorthodox, but Windcharger couldn’t help but be thankful. Who knew where he would be right now if it weren’t for them?

 _I’d probably be in a blank white room being probed_ , he realized with a shudder, not for the first or last time. Somehow when he’d woken from stasis prison, he had decided to surrender himself into the infamous Alchemist sector and hadn’t paid any attention what Brawn, Huffer, and Gears were saying as they followed him on his way. Perhaps during that conversation they had asked him to join them in a more traditional manner, but he still couldn’t be sure. Once he announced his intentions, they had taken action and frankly _ordered_ him to come.

“Be my **trilitare** ,” Brawn had said. “There’s no act you need to put on for us.”

This had to be a better life that he could have with NET, though on his lowest orns Windcharger questioned that assumption. Sometimes he considered asking Gears about it; through a mutual comrade, Twincharge, he had learned that Gears had once lived in Alchemist—and a mech didn’t usually live in Alchemist unless they were associated with the Neural Exploration Trial. It would certainly explain some things but he hadn’t quite mustered the courage to bring it up yet. They had enough problems without him bringing up hard memories.

 _That’s what I’m doing just by_ being _here_ , he mused, pursing his lips as he rose and held onto the wall for support as he limped toward the door. It was early in the morning but he probably would have needed to get up anyway for work. His community service didn’t stop simply because members of the community had roughed him up the afternoon before!

Unless Huffer’s recharge had been fitful, the two mechs in the front room were still dead to the world when Windcharger got up in the morning. Sometimes Windcharger would stop and study them, wondering just what had possessed them to agree he should be the **trilitare**. It had only been ten diuns and he still didn’t know them well enough to figure it out.

Brawn’s mood swings took him aback. He was used to a much more apathetic leader—one he would very much like to forget—and the way Brawn could go from proud to angry to gentle in a nanoklik was quite the accomplishment. Windcharger didn’t mind it in the least; it was a nice change of pace, and for one of the first times he could remember since joining, he had laughed as soon as he’d registered the pun.

Huffer…Windcharger didn’t know him. The only reason Charger was here was because he had helped find and extract the One from the Underground, but neither were in a big hurry to mention that experience or get to know each other just yet. They were both still hurting and there was a mutual understanding that—until the storm had blown over and they could both be sure they were healing—they would feel it out as they went along.

Windcharger was too busy with these thoughts to watch where he was going; his left foot brushed the tall stack of data pads Gears always kept close. As they shifted precariously in response, Windcharger quickly bent to catch them, mirroring their wobble as his dented leg protested. It gave out, he struck the leaning tower, and from there it was a race to see what fell first.

The crash brought Gears into a ramrod-straight upright position and after furiously rubbing at his optics, he demanded in a hiss, “What are you doing?!”

“Scrap!” Windcharger swore, hastily sweeping up the scattered piles. “These _streaking_ data pads, they’re always all over the floor! What are they anyway, medical notes?!”

“Stop. Don’t _touch_ them,” Gears commanded in a toneless voice that gave Windcharger pause. The supplies manager rose, gathering up the pads with care and restacking them closer to the wall where they would be out of the way. Once that was done, he stood over his fallen pace-mate and queried, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Windcharger muttered. “I’m fine.” So saying, he strained to get up, surprised when a hand found his elbow and hauled him upright. “Um…thanks.”

“I’m gonna get breakfast,” Gears announced instead of replying, sweeping past him toward the door before hesitating. “Oh, _you_ didn’t happen to get Garbage O’s yesterday, did you? Huffer and Brawn couldn’t quite manage it when they went.”

“No, I was too busy getting pounded with a pipe,” Windcharger countered. Gears threw an almost apologetic glance over his shoulder and exited, though it wasn’t long before Windcharger heard him exclaim, “Oh, you’re up! Great, I get no time to myself.”

“You read my CPU, Gears,” was Brawn’s snide reply. His next words were lower. “Where’s Windcharger? I should probably check out the damage.”

Brawn had certainly not been happy upon arriving home late that night and hearing what had happened in the market. Windcharger would need to downplay it now. Ex-venting evenly, he shuffled out into the short hall and then the front room, managing a smile. “Hey, Brawn.” As the pace-leader rose, features grim, he burst out, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been; I probably wouldn’t’ve gotten out of the fight if some red mech who worked there hadn’t helped me out.”

“Yeh, me! I had to spend all my second-degree sealant on that shoulder of his!” Gears called as he entered the kitchen, poking through cabinets and grumbling at the ones lacking fuel.

Brawn raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he approached, bending to peer at Windcharger’s shoulder. He let himself be appraised, though he flinched away from being touched, until Brawn was satisfied with how it looked. Windcharger then gave it a onceover himself, deciding it looked just as riddled with cracks as it was in reality but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

“I’ll be fine to go into work,” Windcharger announced.

“About that…” Huffer ventured, catching their attention. “I…” Sighing, he shrugged impulsively and admitted, “I still feel responsible for letting you go alone. We should’ve known this would happen.”

“Don’t!” Windcharger cut him off. “I chose to go alone and I’m gonna be fine anyway—thanks to Gears and his medical sealant.” He emphasized this remark enough that the **sequein** waved an unconcerned hand in acknowledgement but didn’t turn to join the conversation.

“Well, even if that’s the case, I don’t think you should be going alone again,” Huffer insisted as he booted up the home comm. unit and then leaned against the edge of the table where it sat, folding his arms. “Not even to work.”

“He doesn’t exactly have a choice about that, little buddy,” Brawn reminded him before Windcharger could speak, but he wouldn’t have said anything different. Service was service, time was time. “He _has_ to serve or he’d be dragged back to the stasis pod kicking and screaming. Of course, they’d have to get through us, but the point still stands.”

“What I mean is that Windcharger can do the work, but he can do it at night!” Huffer explained. “At night, no one’ll be able to recognize him—at least not without getting really close—so he won’t be a garish red-and-silver beacon.” Considering, he added, mostly to himself, “Of course, that’s when all of the prowlers come out, so…um…Well, the three of us will be off by then and one of us can stay with him, make sure he gets home alright.”

“That would mean one of you has to stay up for twenty-four joors,” Windcharger protested, throwing up his hands and wincing as his shoulder strained against the sudden movement. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Since when do you have a say?”

That was a startling question. Windcharger blinked a couple of times and Huffer did as well, optics ruefully falling toward the floor. “Sorry. I just…You’re right, it was a stupid idea.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Slumping, Windcharger grabbed Brawn by the arm, tugging him in close and speaking in a pedal tone. “Brawn, I don’t want to be a burden,” he muttered. “And don’t say I’m not, cos I _know_ what I’ve already been doing to our finances—what happened yesterday, the burnout before that and the energon before that! I don’t want you wearing yourselves down any more on my account. Can you convince them not to do this?”

Since their faces were close, Windcharger could see Brawn’s optics flare with some combination of apology and determination. “Huffer and I were already talkin’ about this,” the pace-leader replied calmly. “You’re one of us now; we’re doing it.” So saying, he shrugged away and announced, “Guess I’ll be taking first watch? Since the project doesn’t need much demolition right now, I’m the best candidate.” He grinned broadly, clanging a fist against his housing with bravado.

“That’s slag!” Gears called again, almost jauntily but with a sarcastic edge. “I guess since ol’ Charger here doesn’t want me to get any recharge anymore, I’ll take my turn tonight and get it over with!”

Then and there, Windcharger decided one thing. _They're crazy. They're completely crazy and they're martyrs and I think I love 'em all._


	8. Chapter 8

_My boost didn’t last very long_ , Cliffjumper decided as he leaned on his counter and planted his chin in one hand, optics trailing the customer moving back and forth in front of his stall, looking thoroughly troubled.

“Can I help you?” Cliff asked once the movement became aggravating to watch.

“Ohh,” the femme tutted disappointedly, shaking her helm. “No, it’s fine. I just got back, so I guess I missed the sale on energon goodies.”

“Well, it was up for about a quintun. I would’ve kept it up longer, but there’s not much I can do about it,” Cliffjumper agreed apologetically. He knew he should technically be referring her to something else, but presently he was in the mood for a simple conversation, so he queried, “Where’d you go? Out of town?”

The femme looked up, eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“Well, you said you got back from somewhere. Vacation? Where’d you go?”

Very slowly, almost precariously, her helm tilted to one side and her optics narrowed. “I haven’t been anywhere,” she told him slowly and clearly. Cliffjumper huffed, straightening. The key words in his thought had been ‘ _simple_ conversation’; he wasn’t in the mood to be spoken to like a sparkling.

“So you _were_ here during the sale,” he said flatly.

“No, I was gone,” she assured him again.

Laughing incredulously, Cliffjumper tilted his helm as she had and smiled sadly. “I guess I really can’t help you, madam. Unfortunately you’re beyond my reach—completely gone, as in mentally.” Yipping lightly, he ducked the open hand that swung for his face and had no time to think up a retort to that before she was on her way. No sooner had he built up to a decompressive ex-vent than another femme, younger, approached and shoved a cube of energon at him.

“I was wondering if I could return this expired energon,” she explained briskly as greeting. “Or get it replaced or a refund, something like that.”

“Well, when did you buy it?” Cliffjumper sighed, glancing toward the energon storage, which he was sure he would have bought out already if _he_ had been a customer instead of its keeper.

“Um…that was two quintuns ago.”

“And when did it expire?”

“An orn ago.”

Cliffjumper blinked, shaking his helm slightly, and clarified, “So you bought it before the expiration date and then it expired. Is that right?”

Her optics flicked toward the offending cube as though just realizing this news and then she lifted her shoulders ruefully, admitting, “Yes, I suppose so…”

“Then we can’t do anything about that,” he concluded, startled by how quickly she could shift from contrite to wrathful.

“What’s your fraggin’ problem?!” she burst out furiously. “Are you fraggin’ _kidding_ me?!”

 _Oh, no, you don’t get to pin this on me, freak_. Sliding the cube back at her, he barked, “Are you serious? You bought it before it expired, kept it until _after_ it expired, and expect me to exchange it now?!”

“Well, have a nice slaggin’ morning!” she growled.

“You too, madam,” he spat, slumping against the counter with a loaded groan of lament. He counted about seven kliks before someone tapped the counter close to his face and he hauled himself back upright.

“Rechargin’ on the job?” the mech questioned with a slight grin. Cliffjumper recognized him and thus didn’t take offense; the green and yellow mech—Brawn, he recalled—had a strange sense of humor, but he and his friend had been coming here for a few vorns now, so Cliff expected it.

“Good morning, you two. What d’you need?” he managed, forcing a smile. The violet mech who rarely ever strayed from his larger companion, who Cliffjumper had privately nicknamed Jitters, nudged aside the expired energon and set four cans of Visco and two packages of Garbage O’s in its place. As Cliffjumper rang them up, he noticed the violet mech open his mouth and then close it, seeming consternated. “Something you want to say?” he opened the way for him.

“We just wanted to thank you,” Brawn said for the both of them, his smile settling deeper in gratitude, “for helping our pace-mate the other orn.”

Taken aback, Cliffjumper tried to shrug it off, commenting nonchalantly, “I help a lot of paces in an orn…Oh, you mean the deal on Visco you got? That was a while back, but I hope you enjoyed it.”

“No, no, he didn’t mean that,” Jitters interrupted, earning a glance of surprise.

“So you _didn’t_ like it?”

“No!” Brawn burst out, ex-venting and holding up his hands. “You got our pace-mate out of a scrape with some tougher mechs. Charger said it was a ‘red mech’ and we knew it had to be you, so we wanted to…” He trailed off, his expression changing from earnest to puzzled as he glanced at the grocer’s hands. “…Are you going to get that?” he changed the end of his sentence.

Cliffjumper followed his gaze, noting how he had frozen the Garbage O’s container over the scanner, causing a ceaseless trill and an encouragement from the computer to remove the item. He did so, jerking it back and tossing it onto the shelf where it belonged. Jitters started to ask what he was doing and Cliffjumper shook off his shock in time to interrupt him.

“I’m refusing service,” he snapped. The pair stared at him blankly and he leaned toward them. “You—you’re harboring a mass murderer! You put him in your pace? Are you fraggin’ insane or were you in on it with him?!”

Jitters visibly shrank, clearly aghast at the implication, but Brawn did the opposite, moving to meet Cliffjumper at the halfway point, optics dark. “‘In on it?’” he echoed in a rumble. “You feel like clarifying, Cliffjumper?”

 _Don’t back down, don’t show weakness_ , Cliffjumper chanted in his thoughts as he glared harder, swept their items away and shoved them with the rest of the stock. “Sure thing, _Brawn_. You, Jitters here, and your psychotic pace-mate, you get nothing from me! Get out of here!”

“The name’s _Huffer_ ,” the violet mech hissed, elbowing Brawn as a summons to leave.

“I’ll be glad to forget it!” Cliffjumper called after them as they retreated, folding his arms steamily. To think he had started liking them! To think he had helped that piece of slag who had brought the Archive down!

“Cliffjumper,” his manager’s stern voice brought him out of his thoughts, “have you ever heard the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“Yeh, sure,” he mumbled as he turned to find Lightfoot standing behind and to the right of him, adding as an afterthought, “Sir.”

“That’s what those mechs were,” Lightfoot reminded him, the rebuke all too clear in his vocals. “Whatever their pace-mate did, you’re not allowed to refuse service by association!”

“But, Sir,” Cliffjumper protested, “their pace-mate is the one who—!”

“Whatever he did, you’re going to find some way to contact those two and let them know they can still shop here! Understood?!”

This was a terrible orn, Cliffjumper realized, shuttering his optics in resignation. Hypervolt would no doubt say it could only go up from here. He just had to ex-vent. “Yes, sir. Can I at least refuse service to their pace-mate who… _offended_ me?” That was a Pit of an understatement but it got the point across; Lightfoot nodded.

“Of course. He’s the one causing the problem.” Glancing at his chronometer, Lightfoot commented, “It’s about time for the mid-orn fuel. Go home for your break, take a venter.”

That was an order Cliff was happy to follow, so he made his way home as briskly as possible, sputtering curses against the wingnuts who had gotten him in trouble with his manager—simply because _they_ were harboring a retro-rat! These musings were cut off as he came through the door and bit back a gasp.

“What the—?”

“Cliff, do come in!” Skydive called, rising from where he had taken a seat in the front lounge. Nodding in bewilderment at his sire’s greeting, Cliffjumper automatically opened his arms, as his carrier was already sweeping over to hug him.

“Aww, my sweet creation. It feels like so long since we’ve seen you!” Overbright exclaimed as she pushed back and looked him over critically. “Your plating feels a bit spongy; haven’t you been refueling properly?”

“It’s only been six diuns, Carrier, and my fueling’s okay…W-What are you doing here?” Cliffjumper stammered, still trying to catch up and glancing at Hypervolt for an explanation.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he laughed. “They dropped in for a surprise visit but you weren’t here, so I kept them company. Now that you’re here, I’ll leave you to ’em while I get some sun!” So saying, he winked and strode toward the stairway leading to the roof.

Once Hypervolt was out of sight, Overbright and Skydive glanced back at their creation, who looked between them warily as their smiles dimmed. “What?” he probed cautiously.

“To be honest, Cliffy, we’ve been worried,” Overbright admitted, keeping one hand on his shoulder and shushing him when he tried to protest the pet name. “We’ve been settling well into the Solus sector—we already have an address and a comm. unit up and running!—but we haven’t heard a word from you about how you’re making do, how you’re coping.”

“Making do?” Cliffjumper echoed, feeling his plating prickle a little at the phrase. “I’ve been just fine. If you have a comm. unit up already, why hasn’t there been any word from _you_?”

“Young mech,” Skydive cut down his defensive tone as soon as it surfaced. “You’ve been just fine, as you say, mostly because you’re an independent sort, but also in part because of our help!”

“Help with what?” Cliffjumper demanded, wincing internally when his sire gave him a look. “Sorry, but I—I don’t know what you mean,” he corrected himself hastily.

“You haven’t noticed?” Overbright ventured, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ve been sending deposits to help you get on your feet alone—small ones, about four-hundred credits a diun.”

Cliffjumper’s spark and jaw dropped. By instinct he locked his knees before he wobbled, repeating in a gasp, “F-Four-hundred?” His internals were already churning with horror and, as he thought back to the gliding range, belated realization. It wasn’t supposed to be conceivable. Had he been utterly _blind?_

“I never got it…” he breathed. “Because of _him!_ ” Tearing free of his carrier’s grasp, he made a feverish scramble toward the stairway. “Hypervolt! He could still be there!” His leap up the stairs was interrupted as he was wrenched back by Skydive’s vice-like grip. “Let me go, Sire, let me go! I’m gonna tear all of those credits out of his subspace!!” he howled, his legs skidding out from underneath him as he strained to be released.

“Stop fighting me! You know he’s gone!” Skydive shouted, repeating the words until his creation finally obeyed, slumping onto the floor even as he tightened his grip on the arms restraining him, vents kicking into high-gear. Once he deemed it safe to release him, Skydive pried his hands out of Cliffjumper’s and announced, “No doubt…he found a way to hack your depository. I’m going to make some calls.”

Nodding numbly, Cliffjumper listened to Skydive leave the room and let himself be pulled up and taken toward one of the nearby chairs. Overbright was quiet, pursing her lips, but Cliff could sense several fluctuations in her EM field, the most prominent being concern, followed closely by anger and dismay. He withdrew from her touch, folding his arms close to his frame and ex-venting shakily.

“’Jumper,” Overbright murmured, tipping his chin up before he recoiled. “Hey…” He swallowed hard against a sudden wave of helplessness as she tried to catch his optics again. “That’s not shame I’m seeing,” Overbright informed him unnecessarily, peering closer in concern. “That’s _fear_.” Straightening, she took some authority to her vocals as she asked, “What’s going on?”

“He lied to me!” Cliffjumper burst out. “He lied to me and he stole from me; he _betrayed_ me and I’m barely—” Resisting the urge to shudder, he glanced at her in alarm, thinking of his many debts. “I’ve barely been _coping_. I—I’m not going to be able to keep the house when I can barely pay for the energon! What am I going to do?! I’m going to lose everything and then—”

“Shut up,” Overbright interjected fiercely; that alone shocked him into silence. “Pull yourself together, Cliffjumper; we’re going to get this sorted out.”

Cliff couldn’t find any answer to that, so he stayed quiet, processor awhirl, until his sire returned to the room. Skydive gave him a full minute before informing him, “Your carrier and I will be sorting out the issue of the hack. You, however…” He paused, optics darkening. “I trust you’ll have some…travel expenses.”

The grocer glanced up, finding nothing but steady support. _Permission_. Again his internals clenched, but this time he jerked a nod, bolstering himself.

“Sure as slag, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. All of us but ol' CJ himself saw this coming.


	9. Chapter 9

“That—that—that _grocer_ has the gall to think we were involved in the Archive coming down, when _we_ _built_ _it_ in the first fraggin’ place!” Brawn seethed as he stalked away from the marketplace emptyhanded, Huffer nearly sprinting to maintain strides with him. “I should’ve told him so to his face, seen how he liked it!”

“I’m not saying I like it,” Huffer called, using a burst of speed to catch up for the fourth or fifth time, “but he did have a point. I mean, I could see where he was coming from.”

“What are you talking about?”

Helplessly Huffer shook his helm, explaining, “We’re living under the same roof with a mech who killed thirteen of our coworkers. What else would any average mech think of us if they heard that?”

“They should think that we’ve forgiven him,” Brawn countered with authority, trying not to show how disconcerted he was, not just because it could be considered a valid point but because it was one of his own pace-mates defending the other side’s point of view. “Cos that’s what we’ve done.”

“Have we?”

Brawn stumbled, recaptured his balance and whirled around, gripping Huffer’s shoulders and peering at him closely. “Huffer?” he prodded warily. “What’ve you got happening in that processor of yours?” Huffer hesitated, looking at some point beyond Brawn’s shoulder, and Brawn gave him a small shake, adding in a warning voice, “Whatever it is, I’m not liking the sound of it.”

His One lived up to his name, sighing lightly as he finally looked him in the optics. “Sorry, Brawn, I’m still having trouble coming to terms with it, especially since it’s still causing us trouble now,” he confessed in a rush. “Bringing him up to a civilian so soon after it actually happened was the worst of ideas and now the grocer who runs the stall with _all_ of our essentials is refusing service to us! We just fragged ourselves; we’ll have to go searching for another stall with our needs and who knows how long that’ll take?!” Shrugging away, he sighed again and resumed the walk.

“Listen,” Brawn pleaded as he hurried to follow, “it was my fault, I know. That’s what you’re not saying, and I’m sorry you have to get off break and go hungry.”

“I’ve done it before,” was the response, so straightforward that it sent a lance of self-doubt through Brawn’s internals. He grimaced.

“But you’re putting this out of proportion. We don’t have to worry about where to find fuel; we can send Gears to get it. Knowing him, he’ll be so busy finding what he likes that he won’t care to mention which pace he belongs to and that Cliffjumper clearly doesn’t care to ask unless it’s brought up.” Huffer gave him a sidelong glance and Brawn tried for a reassuring voice. “It’ll work! Buck up, buddy, please?”

“…That’ll work,” Huffer relented after a klik or two, earning a pat to the back.

“Course it will,” Brawn approved, spark stirring when Huffer ducked his helm and smiled. It was a gamble to coax a smile out of him and thus Brawn was always watching for it; it was worth the effort entirely. _And having no fuel this time means we get to spare the credits,_ he supposed, though he didn’t dare mention that aloud. As far as Huffer was to know, the biggest problem they had to deal with upon returning would be Gears complaining about their lack of fuel offerings.

“Our banishment isn’t your fault, though, and I wasn’t thinking that,” Huffer continued the conversation as though it had never ended. “If you hadn’t gotten tetchy like you did, I think I would’ve a few kliks later. After all, I’m _jittery_ , to say the least.”

Just like that Brawn’s small bridge of optimistic thinking collapsed back into annoyance. “Ugh, I can’t believe he called you that!” he griped. “What a half-clock!”

“Well, _I_ can believe it,” Huffer admitted ruefully, but there was a stroke of bitterness to it. “It’s true.”

“Why are you so keen on defending him?” Brawn asked skeptically instead of trying to deny it further. He wasn’t going to lie, either to himself or to his friend. If he ruminated over the last ten diuns, the nickname did have a _miniscule_ ring of truth to it, but…He hesitated to finish that, glowering more deeply. That was just the same lie told in a milder fashion.

“I’m not defending him,” Huffer replied, frustrated. “I’m trying to see his point of view so I can resist the urge to go back to the market and punch him in his stupid, scowling face!”

At that Brawn barked a surprised laugh and Huffer smiled again, more blatantly, but as the worksite loomed ahead, the engineer took one look at their project and hissed as though physically pained at the sight of it. “Oh, it’s ghastly.”

“It looks the same as when we left,” Brawn protested.

“That’s my point,” his pace-mate shot back. “Do you have any advice on what to do with these three engineers who won’t listen to a word I say about proper safety?” Succinctly Brawn cracked the joints in his hands and Huffer promptly shoved him. “No, no! Not that kind of advice, Brawn!”

Still chuckling, Brawn spread his hands, offering, “I’m always open; if you can’t handle ’em, send ’em my way!”

“How about instead, you forget I asked,” Huffer encouraged, but Brawn could hear a note of warmth in the words which suggested he appreciated the gesture if not what it implied.

“No, Huffer, I mean it,” Brawn restated, his tone equally warm but earnestly sober. If there was a chance to expel some of his understated anger on someone who deserved it, he would take the opportunity in a spark-beat.

“When I asked for some fuel, _I_ meant it!” Gears cried before Huffer could think up a response. Their **sequein** was already on his way toward them, gesturing toward their empty arms. “Did you subspace ’em?! I’m starving!”

“Sorry, Gears,” Huffer began, adopting the pathetic _“don’t-be-angry”_ tone which he had surely practiced for vorns before he met them. “But the grocer at the market gave us a little trou—” He stopped mid-sentence, optics widening as he distinguished three mechs some yards away, delivering several different kinds of materials to the pile Brawn and his team were to be demolishing this afternoon. “Oh, scrap. I’ll be right back!” he said hurriedly, bolting toward the trio.

“So you didn’t get any fuel?” Gears asked, recalling Brawn’s attention. This wasn’t the usual demanding tone the supplies manager used; he seemed entirely jaded, resigned to his fate. Pursing his lips, Brawn squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

“Sorry. Think there’s someone who wouldn’t mind sharing? Blitzglitch likes you,” he reminded him.

That fleeting glimpse of fatigue vanished in a nanoklik and Gears glared. “Yeh, well, thanks to Huffer dislocating his jaw, Blitz only has low-grade, since med- and high-grade usually have additives that can aggravate injuries.” Throwing up his hands, he concluded, “I don’t get fuel, tonight I won’t get recharge…what’s next? We can’t afford med care?”

“How about instead of complaining, you thank the Primes we haven’t _needed_ it?” Brawn suggested firmly. “We’re going to be just fine. You just handle the credits we _do_ have and _I’ll_ see about snatching up some more. In the meantime, you’ve got this stock of medical supplies, haven’t you? The one we knew nothing about until last night?”

Presently Gears didn’t know about Brawn’s search for a second job and while the pace-leader could be tempted to tell him in instances like this, he didn’t want to raise Gears’ hopes unnecessarily. He hadn’t found anything that seemed right yet and he’d only had an orn or two of investigation. It would take time, like everything else.

“The stock was only supposed to be used for emergencies,” Gears explained chidingly, as though it were the simplest reason whatsoever. “But I haven’t had to touch or mention it until now, cos we’re broke and that _is_ an emergency!”

“No, it’s not!”

That denial didn’t come from Brawn, so the pair of them turned their optics to the trio Huffer was pestering. The mech who seemed to be the leader was gesturing to the materials they were disposing of and speaking just loud enough to hear.

“None of this is essential! We need the burnouts to take care of it so it’ll be out of our way!”

Huffer’s shoulders slumped for just a klik before he mustered himself. “First of all, don’t call the demolitionists ‘burnouts’; it’s disrespectful. Secondly—”

“Ahh, you’d call them burnouts too if your buddy wasn’t their chief!” the leader scoffed.

Bristling, Brawn tapped Gears’ shoulder again in farewell and began his march. “There he goes…” he heard Gears sigh, thoroughly exasperated. Brawn didn’t particularly care; his opportunity to expel that anger had arrived early, it seemed.

“Don’t interrupt me, Sprocket,” Huffer was snapping. “Secondly, this is perfectly good material and even if we don’t use it on this project—which would be my preference—we’ll use it for something in the future! It should be directed to Gears for storage but you’re _wasting_ it instead.”

Sprocket opened his mouth to retort but Brawn arrived in time to interject. “Hello, Huffer,” he greeted, his tone so overtly pleasant that it gained an edge. “What can we burnouts do for you this _fine_ afternoon?”

Huffer gave him no answer but a startled face, one which informed Brawn that his One knew exactly what he was trying to do here. Brawn beamed, letting it pan from his pace-mate to Sprocket’s two companions, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Sprocket, however, was entirely oblivious.

“You could get rid of this material we don’t need,” he advised.

“Really?” Brawn deadpanned, smile dropping. “Isn’t that Huffer’s decision, as chief engineer? It’s his job to give the orders and your job to follow them, right? It should go to Gears to be sorted.”

Ironically Sprocket returned the words with an expression much like Huffer’s, though he recovered more quickly, scoffing again. “Wow, Huffer has mates waiting in every corner to gang up on me, doesn’t he?” he exclaimed. “Are you _sure_ you’re the pace-leader here?”

“Sprocket!” one of the others hissed in disbelief, but no sooner had he that Brawn was latching onto the younger mech’s arm. The third mech started forward to pry them loose, but the one who had spoken put an arm out to stop him. Brawn gave him a minute nod before turning the full weight of his ire on the offending mech.

“You don’t have a pace yet, do you?” he growled. “You don’t even have your bearings yet, _apprentice_ , and if you wanna have time to get ’em, you better watch that manifold mouth!”

“Well, you may _think_ you have your pace on a leash,” Sprocket responded, haughty and seamless, “but what you don’t have is any authority over me!”

“Then it seems I’ll have to assert myself,” Hightop decided, quite promptly appearing and shoving the two mechs apart with surprising strength. “Brawn, Huffer, by the veneer beams right now, and tell Gears he’s coming too. Sprocket, Hazard, Enigma—my office. Go!”

As much as he was disinclined to, Brawn obeyed what was clearly an order and gestured Gears over as he pulled Huffer into their “corner”. Gears seemed entirely unsurprised when Brawn informed him Hightop was going to talk with them and Brawn hoped that meant Gears approved of how he’d handled it. He wasn’t sure what he would say if he found out otherwise.

When he arrived, Hightop miraculously managed to stare each of them down one by one before he spoke. “This is the second time this quintun I’ve had to pull you over,” he stated unnecessarily. “Brawn, you and Huffer are the best; that’s why you’re my go-to mechs for authority. Gears…” He glanced at him, features softening just a fraction. “We go back. But this is my second warning! None of you have been quite the same since the Archive, I know that. I was there. That’s still absolutely no excuse for what’s been happening. Whatever has you three high-wired, it can’t go on. The arguments, the disruptions, they’re holding us up, creating tension. I’m going to talk to Sprocket and his comrades about how they treat officers, but I expect better from those same officers—even _former_ officers, Gears.”

“Yes, sir,” Gears muttered, sounding distinctly uncomfortable at being targeted.

Ex-venting, Hightop shook his helm, planting his hands on his hips. “So these are my orders: Brawn, mind your own business; Huffer, mind the stress levels; and Gears, I give to you the streakin’ special honor of belting these two if they start to slip again. Beyond that, I can only hold so much from your records before I get accused of bias, and if that happens, I’m going to be a _very_ unhappy manager.”

Thoroughly chastised, Brawn stayed silent as he was ordered back to work and began disposing of the perfectly good materials. After work, he intended to seek after another job with only more vigor; if Hightop only gave three chances, this was his third, and if he slipped again, a backup plan would be urgently needed.


	10. Chapter 10

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Cliffjumper admitted reluctantly, optics tracing the clefts carved into the floor as his creators readied themselves.

“Yes, I know, Cliffjumper, but in order to sort out this problem I need access to my resources and contact information in Solus,” Skydive explained apologetically, earning a stony nod. Seeming discomfited by his creation’s lack of drive, he held out a hand.

Upon shaking it, Cliffjumper was taken by surprise when he withdrew his hand and five credit sticks had been pressed into his palm. He glanced up questioningly and Skydive gave him a smile that was more like a grimace; the expression was fitting for the situation.

“That needs to last until your depository is reimbursed,” he advised. “When I called, the clerk told me it will take five to seven orns for full credit to be returned to you.”

“Shouldn’t it be returned to you?” Cliff mumbled, his spark burning with guilt at the thought of his creators still being completely willing to give him what he had been stupid enough to overlook. By staying here while they left, he had meant to stop being a burden on them and now that role hadn’t let up; it had _worsened_.

Overbright wrapped around him from the side, squeezing him until his shoulders hurt. “No, you take it,” she said firmly. “It’s yours; we gave it to you, despite what that criminal did. You aren’t going to lose the house, Cliffy, it’s all going to be taken care of.”

“Alright, alright, Carrier,” he managed as she tightened her hold on him. “Kind of hard to vent when I’m in a death grip.” As an afterthought, he added shakily, “Th-Thanks…for everything.”

Once they were on their way, Cliffjumper began the journey back to his work, but he was plodding slowly, internals churning as he tried to digest what had happened. His carrier had called Hypervolt a criminal and that’s what he _was_. A mech who had been Cliffjumper’s adviser, roommate and comrade had in the span of a few joors become a liar, thief and traitor. His hands twitched into fists of their own volition and he decided he needed to use this walk to expend some of his furious energy. He broke into a run.

Oh, but it wasn’t a span of joors that had changed him; it had been orns, diuns, and Cliffjumper had trusted him too much to even suspect. _How could I ever trust that piece of scrap?_ he demanded of himself as he tore through Nexus toward his work, ignoring anyone who barked at him for getting in their way. _How could I ever think of him as a friend? Frag him, frag everyone else. I’m on my own and apparently that’s the way it has to be._

Though the questions remained with him, the sprint had done him a bit of good; he was also able to consider the few pros that his creators’ presence had given him. _They’ve given me credit sticks to last until the depository’s up and running again,_ he reminded himself comfortingly as he checked back in and manned his stall. _In five orns, I’ll be able to pay back Long Run and the others. It’ll be alright; I just have to hold out five orns._

He sighed decisively, trying to muster a kinder demeanor when a mech strode up with clear purpose. “Where are your wheel-nuts?” he asked promptly.

“They’re over with the other nuts,” Cliffjumper replied, gesturing toward the crates of nuts and bolts.

“Well, I didn’t see them.”

“Look again,” Cliffjumper encouraged, hoping there wasn’t a snap to his voice. “They’re between the cap-nuts and the coupling nuts. Trust me, they’re so easy to find that you’ll laugh when you see ’em.”

The mech wandered off, repeating Cliffjumper’s directions to himself, and returned a few minutes later with the package he wanted.

“You found them,” Cliff congratulated him. The mech nodded, clearly pleased with himself.

“Yeah, I couldn’t see them because the sign was in the way.”

“The sign?” When the grocer followed the customer’s pointing finger, he easily distinguished the eighteen-inch sign with three-inch letters, easily readable even from this distance. Cliffjumper’s optics widened incredulously. “You couldn’t see the wheel-nuts…because of the sign that says **WHEEL-NUTS**?”

“Yeah, that’s right!” the customer huffed indignantly. Cliffjumper glanced between him and the sign and thumped a fist on the table.

“Primus, why do I even bother? I can’t help you, sir! Get your optics recalibrated!”

After the clearly-blind mech made his exit, business slowed to a crawl. For the first time since he’d started his employment here, Cliffjumper wished another customer would arrive to take his musings away from his problems. He didn’t want to think of his enemy—for yes, that’s what Hypervolt was now—though it did give him opportunities to consider how much pain he was going to put him in once he found him.

It was almost like he was in a daze or a horrible dream; he was planning revenge against the mech who had lived with him for so long. How long had Hypervolt been stealing from him? It had probably started once his creators had begun sending credits, but what if it had begun before that? What if Hype had been stealing not just from his creators but from Cliff himself? Was he the reason they had fallen into debt so quickly?

 _That son-of-a-scrapheap is going to pay. He’ll pay with my credits and he’ll pay with his frame_ , he vowed, not for the first or last time.

“Cliffjumper!” Lightfoot called sternly. “There’s no time like the present!”

“Sorry, what?” Cliffjumper straightened from where he had slouched against the energon storage.

“It’s too slow around here and I do not like the looks of it! You need to find those two customers you scared off earlier and make amends. Call them, make a house call, whatever you need to do to get them back here,” his manager instructed, his tone nothing short of superior. Cliffjumper bravely resisted the urge to roll his optics and tipped a two-fingered salute instead.

“Right away, sir. I’ll clock out when I’m done with the computer,” he sighed. It was easy enough to pull up the billing addresses from his customers’ credit sticks, but there were many to sort through and since he had refused to give them their purchases, Brawn and Jitters— _Huffer,_ a hissy little voice in his processor corrected—were nowhere near the top of the list.

It took him about a joor to find them and once he had the address, he snatched up the groceries they had needed, the Visco and the Garbage O’s. After a hesitation, he grudgingly added two packets of rust sticks and two polonium spritzers as a sign of goodwill that he certainly didn’t feel they deserved. He would _not_ add a third for the murderer.

Home 4105 lay at the very end of the street, practically on top of the boardwalk itself, which told Cliffjumper they weren’t very well-off. _No wonder they’re buying Garbage O’s,_ he decided, eyeing the packages with distaste.

Since his arms were full, he kicked the door as soon as he reached it, receiving no answer. Impatient, he kicked it twice more, hard enough that the clang reverberated through his foot and echoed against the door’s surface. It finally slid open and a red and blue mech, shorter than Cliffjumper, glared out at him.

“We don’t want any fraggin’ advertisements,” he announced. Cliffjumper gave him a blank look and in turn his optics found what the red mech was carrying. “Garbage O’s! It’s about time!” Lashing out, he snatched the two packages and hugged them, though he puzzled Cliff slightly when he made a point of physically forcing his mouth out of the smile that had surfaced. “Come on in, deliverymech, you can put the rest on the table.”

“Wait, I think I have the wrong house,” Cliffjumper protested as the stranger stepped aside. “I’m looking for two _other_ mechs who wanted—” The words broke off as his optics passed the mech who had greeted him and focused on a taller mech limping out of the kitchen, striking red and silver. The groceries went to the ground, not quite as gently as they could have been, and the murderer glanced toward the source of the clatter, freezing like a shocker-stag caught in the light when he recognized him.

Cliffjumper brushed past the short one, revising through clenched teeth, “Actually, it looks like I _do_ have the right house. This’ll only take a nanoklik.” He couldn’t get his hands on Hypervolt just yet, but here was someone else who deserved retribution! The murderer shifted, seeming to consider retaking his refuge in the kitchen, but Cliffjumper was going to make sure he didn’t get that far.

He only got a foot or so beyond the door into the simple front room before Brawn and Huffer materialized on each side of his peripheral vision, coming together to bar his way and block the offender from view.

“You getting déjà vu, little buddy?” Brawn asked testily, leaning into his face. “Cos I sure am. What the frag are you doing in my house?”

Optics sparking with ferocity, Cliffjumper jerked a thumb over his shoulder, growling, “I’ve been ordered to make amends. You’re free to get materials wherever you slaggin’ care to, even if I could stop you.”

“Well, surprise! You can’t,” Brawn stated.

“Thanks for the fuel,” Huffer added, his accompanying smile just a touch unnerving, not that Cliff would ever admit it. “Now get out.”

“Sure,” Cliffjumper acquiesced, though as he pivoted and headed for the door, he called back, “Nice little place you’ve got, by the way. You should probably clean up though, clear out the scrap that’s fraggin’ you over.”

They knew exactly who he meant, he thought smugly, only to lose the satisfaction when he heard Brawn’s hydraulics spit a heavy gust of air—he was lunging. Cliffjumper spun around to meet him, only for the contract killer to snatch at Brawn’s closest arm, wrenching him back. The pace-leader’s feet screeched against the floor as he resisted and Huffer joined the scrapheap’s effort and seized the other arm, which stopped the resistance.

Another thing Cliffjumper would never admit was that coolant sent a chill down his backstrut as he made his escape, pointedly kicking over one of the Visco cans as he went. That could have been close, but he was sure he could have handled Brawn if he had been mech enough to attack him face to face. Even this thought couldn’t alieve his frustration. Two criminals were escaping justice and when he was still oblivious as to whom they really were, he had helped them both!

 _That’s what helping other people gets me,_ he concluded bitterly. _That’s what friends get me, that’s what paces get me—even when the pace isn’t mine!_

He could definitely use a stiff glass of elite high-grade right about now, maybe even some engex and a femme to flirt with, but with the mood he was in he couldn’t be sure he would even enjoy it. That brought him back to Hypervolt too; Hype had always insisted he find a femme friend and now that he was gone, Cliffjumper was considering doing just that. That was ironic.

 _Never mind,_ he decided. _My credits have to last anyway; I wouldn’t even be able to buy her a drink!_

Thus he trudged home and when he arrived, he was taken aback by how empty it felt. There wasn’t anyone to greet as he entered, which made his steps echo all the louder in the silence. He ex-vented, unnerved, but reminded himself that he would have to get used to it.

He wouldn’t have a roommate again, at least not for a long while, if he had any say in the matter…which he did, because all of this empty space was his and his alone. As he headed for the cold energon storage, Cliffjumper wondered if the grades he had would be enough to sustain him now that he didn’t have to share. He faltered to a stop as soon as he entered, mouth opening in disbelief.

“Carrier,” he murmured, crouching next to the high-grade stock that certainly hadn’t been there this morning. On top of the closest cube, he found a data pad and a package of chrome-cakes waiting and smiled a little, fully expecting a note telling him not to drink or eat too much at once but have enough to satisfy.

To his surprise, the note was not from his carrier.

**_Cliffjumper:_ **

**_As you can see, your carrier gave you some treats, but my gift to you is my word, as it’s always been. A reminder to you: you’ve always known Liege Maximo was the schemer, the war-crafter. Autonomous Maximus was the lonely one who renounced his title in the face of that, but Solus was the one who met the war with intelligence, good craft, and a fierce temper through injustice. Choose well._ **

**_Skydive_ **

To anyone else, this would seem like a story about the famed Thirteen Primes, Cliffjumper realized, but Skydive knew he would understand. He reread the words, seeing a message entirely different:

_You’ve been betrayed and you’re alone, but you’re a fighter. Go to war._


	11. Chapter 11

The evening fuel was being taken in silence and frankly Huffer found it unnerving. Usually the four of them were able to talk about something or another, be it filling in Windcharger on some entertaining happenstance they had witnessed or the latest news broadcast from one of the other sectors. However, nothing big had happened in the news and an orn like this didn’t have any humor that they could discern, so everyone was keeping quiet.

Huffer didn’t really mind the abnormal quiet but what he did mind was his pace-mates’ moods, apparent _because_ of their silence.

Brawn looked grim, fidgeting occasionally where he sat at the head of the slab they used as a table, fiddling with his can of Visco without drinking any. Maybe he was wondering if that Cliffjumper had spiked it. Huffer gulped at this idea, glancing at his own can anxiously and trying to recall just how much of it he had drank. However much it was, he was just glad neither he nor Brawn had touched the polonium spritzers yet.

Meanwhile Gears had resigned from the practice of looking up from his fuel, entirely taken up with it; he’d been deprived of Garbage O’s for what he had complained felt like ages. At least now he was…happy. Was he happy? After approximately four vorns, Huffer still couldn’t read him that well, but it was a short amount of time so it shouldn’t bother him. It bothered him anyway.

Windcharger, however, met Huffer’s gaze and the engineer pursed his lips. Unlike Gears, Charger was easy to read. Their **trilitare** was clearly unsure of himself at the moment; it probably had to do with Cliffjumper’s words that he was the ‘scrap’ that had ‘fragged them over’. Huffer sighed lightly, leaning toward Brawn and snatching his can.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Brawn demanded as Huffer cracked it open and smelled the contents before peering into the opening.

“I’m making sure you aren’t going to be poisoned,” Huffer replied succinctly. “Primus knows if Cliffjumper wanted to get back at us—not just Windcharger, but us too! He’s obviously the kind to hold a grudge and the way he spoke to you…ugh, it would probably be just like him to do something like that. There’s probably weapons-grade nucleon in this or something, to ravage your internals.” Swirling the contents, Huffer glanced up its owner. “You still want it?”

“You’re kidding, right? Not after you just said that,” Brawn snorted. “Change the subject; I’m done thinking about that bit-brain.” He paused, adding in a dark pedal tone, “You shouldn’t’ve stopped me from taking him down though; I would’ve decked him once and it would’ve been over and done with.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gears piped up, still not lifting his helm. “Cos then that…whatever you called him…would definitely file against you, meaning Hightop would find out, meaning our last chance would be up, meaning it would go on your record, meaning—”

“I get the picture,” Brawn snapped. “Hightop said all those things to me too, if you weren’t aware. I know the risks just like you do but if anyone’s insulting our pace’s honor…” Folding his arms, he gave them nothing short of a slightly more dignified pout and concluded, “…it’s just like Sprocket. It’s my duty to handle it.”

“Handling it doesn’t always mean putting out someone’s optics,” Gears stated flatly, finally looking up from his fuel. “I mean, most of the time putting out some optics is the way to go, but when we’re on threat by our boss, we have to tread lightly.”

“What d’you mean, ‘we’?” Brawn challenged. “Hightop made a point of saying you go way back, didn’t he? _You’re_ in no trouble!”

“But I will be if you two get your capacitors in an uproar!” Gears objected. “That’s why he told me to look after you, so I know I’ll take the rap just as much as you will if you screw up!”

“We don’t need to be _minded!_ ” Huffer burst out indignantly.

“Really? Cos Brawn was definitely going to attack that smaller, weaker bot earlier! And you stopped him, remember? Seems to me that’s a mech who needs minding,” Gears pointed out stubbornly.

“It’s _your_ turn to tread carefully, **sequein** ,” Brawn forewarned, finally earning a pause from their Hightop-appointed minder. Before any of them could fill that pause, Windcharger inserted himself.

“Can we not talk about work?” he pleaded. “Not work or this grocer mech or attacking anyone? Let’s talk about something fun!”

That brought three pairs of wide optics toward him. “Fun?” Huffer echoed, feeling a small sting of guilt at how incredulous he sounded. Windcharger shuttered his optics for a klik as though praying for patience before waving a hand at them.

“Hello,” he greeted jadedly. “Carnival mech, remember? Before—” He winced slightly, shaking his helm minutely. “Before everything that happened…happened, I _loved_ my life!” He clearly noticed their expressions shifting to wary unease and he added quickly, “No, no, I don’t regret being in this pace—you got me out of a terrible place—but really, you need to lighten up! Life is tricky and demanding but from what you’re saying, it sounds like all we can do right now is make peace with that.”

With that Windcharger rose, clearing away his fuel into the kitchen, and announced, “I hope you don’t mind, but whenever I can’t recharge, I’ve been building something using materials we have lying around here and there’s no time like the present to test it out! Hopefully the tech isn’t too outdated.”

“None of the tech we have here is outdated,” Brawn informed him, making a face at the inference. Windcharger shrugged and smiled before heading into his berthroom. Huffer glanced at Gears questioningly.

“Have you seen anything?” he mouthed. Gears responded by raising his eyebrows, jamming more Garbage O’s into his mouth and making a noncommittal noise. That wasn’t very helpful, but Huffer decided to take it as a no.

 _Windcharger’s not much of a construction mech as far as I’ve seen_ , he mused, _so it has to be something small and simple that he could make._

“Here we are,” Windcharger exclaimed, returning to sit, laying a steely piece of livid metal over his knees. It was about three inches wide and seven feet long, shaped to a strange combination of a trapezium and a hexagon, with annealed iron strings lining ridges along its length.

“What’s that?” Gears asked suspiciously. Grinning, Windcharger cracked his fingers before resting them against the strings.

“It’s a vlin. Have you ever seen one?” At their indications of the negative, he went on, “It’s an instrument they make in Solus—but they’re pretty rare—and if the technology is decent, they can be personalized to a wavelength. Only bots who are attuned to magnetics can play one and fortunately, I am just that.”

As the hum of magnetism vibrated the strings, Huffer was torn between scooting back from the unknown and moving forward for his pace-mate’s sake. “Windcharger,” he protested, “don’t use your magnetism for this! You don’t want to wear yourself out!”

“What did I say about lightening up?” he asked rhetorically, still smiling as he ran his fingertips gently over the strings and then lifted them, the air in the inch between his hands and the instrument fluctuating, creating a keen hum. When he shifted an index finger, the key ascended. Chuckling almost to himself, Charger swept his right palm toward the base of the vlin and the sounds became a warble in bass.

“Know any good songs?” he questioned triumphantly, glancing up at his audience with shining optics. Huffer glanced at Brawn and Gears, who for once wore the same expression of awe.

They had been building structures for so long, Huffer realized, that he suddenly couldn’t remember the last time they had built something for themselves. It stirred a quiet ache in him and he was about to mention a song he’d learned as a second-frame when there was a knock at the door, startling them. Windcharger promptly shut off his magnetism and rose, sighing, “Never mind that, then…I’ll be in the room so I don’t terrify anyone.”

Resisting the urge to curse at whoever had arrived for ruining Windcharger’s mood, Huffer stood as well, peering out the window. “Oh! Wait, Charger, it’s Rusty and Polevault!”

Brawn leapt to his feet, eagerly nudging Huffer aside to welcome their friends, while Gears remained sitting with a nonchalant wave. When he received chiding looks from all three of his pace-mates, he got up and waved again more pointedly before sitting back down.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked the both of them, though he was looking at Polevault.

“We just wanted to drop by for a visit and see how you were doing,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You weren’t in the best of moods when you last dropped by.” So saying, she glanced at Windcharger, inquiring warily, “How are _you_ holding up?”

“Getting better, thank you,” Windcharger answered cordially. As Brawn was already busy talking with Rusty, Huffer watched them both carefully. As far as he knew, Polevault had forgiven Windcharger for what he’d done, but it wasn’t any secret to them that she would make only a small effort to be friendly toward him for a while longer.

In response to Windcharger’s words, Polevault nodded briefly and sipped at the energon cube she had brought with her before nodding at Huffer and scooting past him toward the seat Gears was gesturing to.

Contracting his vents as he moved out of her way, Huffer stifled a bittersweet sigh as he recognized the soft, fresh fragrance of high-grade. Rusty also had a cube, undoubtedly of the same variety, which he was stirring with a rust stick as he and Brawn talked. Huffer noted that Brawn was quite stoically ignoring it.

“But that’s enough about us,” Rusty was saying. “How are you and yours?”

“To be honest, this is the first good talk I’ve had since…sometime this morning,” Brawn admitted as he gestured for Rusty to sit next to Polevault. “It’s been a pretty slaggin’ horrible orn.”

Rusty clicked his tongue regretfully as he put an arm over Polevault’s shoulders. “Sorry to hear that, but like I always say, all we can do is make peace with that.”

“That’s exactly what I told ’em,” Windcharger piped up.

“Then you’ve got a good sense for situations like this!” Rusty informed him approvingly before glancing at the instrument he was balancing against his leg. “What’s that?”

Windcharger beamed at the question, repeating what he had said about the vlin beforehand, and their guests insisted he play something. Huffer watched the proceedings, feeling duty-bound to make sure Windcharger was going to be alright, using his augmentation like this, but he could only endure a song or two before he crept into the far end of the kitchen, leaning against the wall.

If anyone had seen him, he had expected it to be Brawn, when in fact it was Gears who appeared in front of him.

“Something got your plating in a twist?” he asked straightforwardly.

“No.”

Apparently Huffer wasn’t too convincing, as Gears didn’t move an inch. “You’re still fretting about everything that’s happened,” he pointed out. When Huffer didn’t try to come back with an answer, Gears promptly balled up a fist and punched him, striking the vulnerable joint in his arm.

“Ow!” he burst out, startled.

“Okay, listen,” Gears ex-vented, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “I am not a happy mech. You’re clearly not a happy mech either, but at least _I_ have an excuse.” He rapped two knuckles against his chest meaningfully. “Charger’s out there with his new toy that he’s really proud of, Rusty and Polevault are visiting, and Brawn just smiled for the first time I’ve seen since Hightop cracked down on us. I am _not_ happy and I am _not_ a supporter of happiness, but for once I think it would do _you_ some good.”

Huffer blinked, digesting the words, and let himself be dragged back into the front room. Once he sat, he stayed there, mostly because of Gears’ optics drilling holes into him. Even so, he enjoyed the music.

After what seemed like a very short time—which turned out to be over three joors—Rusty and Polevault told them they needed to head home. “It’s a long drive,” Rusty pointed out ruefully. “But it was great to see you! Charger, if you ever come out to our place, you’re bringing that instrument with you! My pace-mates would love it!”

“Sure thing,” Windcharger promised happily.

With that the couple took their leave, but as the door closed behind them Huffer couldn’t help but feel like something was different. His vents kicked up a notch and he glanced at the tabletop, where the two large cubes of high-grade, mostly full, still sat, the smell reminding him.

“Wait!” he called out, shoving an arm through the door just before it closed. When it reopened, he peered out, his spark pulse naturally quickening because of the darkness, but their friends had already disappeared. Humming discontentedly, he pulled himself back inside and glanced at the others. All three were staring at the cubes.

“They’re already gone,” Huffer informed them. Brawn glanced between him and the high-grade, folding his arms thoughtfully.

“What do we do with it?” Windcharger questioned, a note of hope catching in his voice, clear for all to hear.

“It’s perfectly good…” Gears pointed out slowly. “…Not like we can just throw it away.”

Brawn glanced at Huffer again with a weighty shrug and Huffer responded with a returned shrug that was much more like a shiver of excitement.

“Let’s divvy it up!”


	12. Chapter 12

This felt like the slowest orn of the quintun, Cliffjumper determined, and it wasn’t for a lack of customers—in fact, it was _because_ of the steady lines amassing around him. He did everything he could to hint that they should leave him alone, such as informing them that his stall held none of the materials they needed, but they would only ask a stupid, inevitable question.

“Oh, you don’t sell that? What _do_ you sell?”

“Where do you suggest I go next?”

“Have you heard of any places that might sell what I need? Where can I find them?”

 _I’m not fraggin’ customer-service!_ Cliffjumper wanted to wail. _Leave me alone!_ But he had already annoyed his manager yesterday by being so reluctant to find Brawn and Huffer, so he simply clenched his jaw and hands and told them what they needed to know.

All he wanted was to leave! He was incredibly distracted, rolling his sire’s letter over in his mind, hoping he was understanding it as Skydive had meant it. He was sure he was; Skydive was encouraging him to take action, but he couldn’t very well do that if he was too busy at his work! All of this seemed so pointless in the face of what he had to do. Firstly, he had to figure out whatever his first mission was.

 _Where would Hypervolt even go?_ Cliffjumper wondered as he swept items hastily over the scanner, briefly shuttering his optics as two sparklings screamed at their carrier directly in front of him. _He might go to a friend or…are his creators still alive? If they are and he didn’t want to stay with them, they either live poorly or they hate him._

 _You’re one to talk,_ he reminded himself wryly. _Your creators are just fine and they love you and you still hate asking for their help._

 _Well…any proper third-frame mech shouldn’t be leaning on his creators!_ What, then, did that say about him now, relying on credits his sire had given him to continue on? It surely wasn’t something Cliff could be proud of. How would he even know if Hypervolt had that kind of relationship with his creators, if he had any at all?

 _How much do I even know about him?_ Although Cliffjumper had genuinely considered Hypervolt one of his closest friends, it was panicking to realize just how little he knew about the other mech. Ever since they had met, Hype had been all about the bright side of life, always on the lookout for something fun to catch his optic, always craving some kind of entertainment.

Maybe…maybe that was how Hype had considered him: just a toy to be played with until he got bored and left it behind. The thought brought harsh loathing to a boil in him and he frankly shoved the purchases at the mech they belonged to. As the mech made a rude gesture at him and left, Cliffjumper scanned the marketplace and found he had just a klik or two before someone else arrived. He took that opportunity to sit and earnestly sort through his thoughts.

Despite everything that had been revealed, Cliffjumper knew that Hypervolt had been kind to him. It was possible—highly unlikely, but _possible_ —that the remorse Hype had showed for being unable to help had been genuine.

 _No, no, no, he_ was _able to help—by giving me my credits!_ one side of him snarled.

 _But what if the only reason he moved in with me was because he was hard up?_ the other side questioned. _Maybe he just…didn’t know how to ask for my help._

When he got his hands on Hypervolt, he would definitely demand answers, but there were many steps to take in order to reach that point. Standing, Cliffjumper switched on the data plaque that said his stall was temporarily closed and then ventured off in search of his manager. Just as he had figured, Lightfoot could be found in his office, one of the only genuine buildings to be found in the marketplace.

“Cliffjumper, why are you in here and not out there?” Lightfoot asked, giving him an irritated glance before returning his optics to the data pad he was reading.

“Sorry, sir, but I have a…personal problem,” Cliffjumper muttered. “What d’you know about Hypervolt?”

“What, the Hypervolt who recruited you? He’s _your_ friend, Cliff!”

How he hated to hear those words. Cliffjumper shook his helm violently, insisting, “Anything you can tell me would help, I’m serious!”

With an exaggerated sigh, Lightfoot tossed his data pad onto his desk and threw up his hands. “After leaving his old job at The Morning Glory, he came here looking for a job and ended up directing me to you instead! That’s all I know about your—”

“Thank you, sir! I’ll get back to work,” Cliffjumper assured him before he could repeat the blasted word “friend”, swiftly taking his leave. He now had a name of an old workplace, which he was sure to visit as soon as his own drudgery was over. There were also a few other mechs he planned to visit; as much as he wanted this quest to be his and his alone, he recognized the need for other pairs of optics.

Once his shift was done, he decided to visit those other mechs first, racing the well-memorized paths to the basketrek courts. Hypervolt had undoubtedly considered Cinder, Sideline, Lifeline and the others his friends—not like that was saying much, he mused darkly—but Cliffjumper had befriended them as well. Hopefully they would know things about Hypervolt that he might not, since they had built a rapport and had been on a team with him.

To Cliffjumper’s relief, Cinder and the brothers were on the courts, but it seemed like they were just packing up to leave. “Hey!” Cliff shouted urgently. “I need to talk to you, all of you!”

“Not so fast,” the securitymech warned, barring his way.

“No, I don’t want to rent them,” Cliffjumper huffed.

“You know the rules, sir, you can’t enter the courts unless you—”

“Ugh, fine!” With this sharp cry, Cliffjumper wrenched one of his credit sticks out of his subspace and slapped it into the guard’s hand before elbowing past him and jogging toward the mechs he was familiar with.

“Hey, ’Jumper,” Lifeline greeted with a half-sparked wave, panting. “We’ve already played enough for this evening; we were just rollin’ out for the evening fuel at The Mirror Front.” His brother chuckled fleetingly, shaking his helm.

“This’ll only take a nanoklik,” Cliffjumper promised hurriedly. “Listen, have you heard from Hypervolt sometime these past couple of orns?”

“Hypervolt?” Cinder echoed with a shrug as he prodded his ballobot with his foot so it rolled in the general direction of the rack. Distractedly Cliffjumper bent and picked up the ballobot as it hit the wall and came his way. As he waited for their answer, he began running his hands over its thin EM field to soothe it; clearly Cinder had been working it just as hard as usual.

“Yeh, y’know, he usually comes with me!” Cliffjumper reminded them pointedly. “You know him; he’s on your team!”

“Oh, yeah, him,” Sideline drawled, laughing again. “No, I haven’t seen him since…” He paused, making a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know.”

Tucking the ballobot under his arm, Cliffjumper stared at the three of them, correcting deliberately, “My question was whether or not you’d _heard_ from him. Sideline, are you saying you _saw_ him?”

“No!” was Sideline’s exclamation that came just a nanoklik too quickly, followed by another nervous laugh. “I said I didn’t know when I saw him last!”

As Cliffjumper took a step forward, lifting himself to full height, Sideline shrank as though the weight of a mech much taller had settled on his shoulders. Optics narrowed, Cliffjumper spat, “You know. Where did you see him?” Sideline glanced at his brother, who shook his helm just enough for Cliff to see. “Oh, no, you’re in on it too,” he warned. “You said you’re going to The Mirror Front! Pretty upmarket place, isn’t it?”

“You’re a rich mech _and_ you know the market. You would know,” Cinder shot back composedly.

Setting aside the ballobot and doubling his fists at the stinging words, Cliffjumper barked, “You fraggers, you two-timing _fraggers!_ How much did he pay you?!”

“Hey, you,” the securitymech warned, subspacing Cliffjumper’s credit stick and approaching. “It seems to me you’re getting a little tense—”

“You bet I’m gettin’ tense!” Not looking at the guard, waving his hands at the silent, self-righteous trio, Cliffjumper hollered, “They’ve taken my credits! They all bought in on it and I want what’s mine _right now_ , you streakin’ traitors, or I swear I’m gonna take you apart right here!”

The words didn’t hold as much weight as something with astonishing force hammered him in the back. Yelping in disbelief and pain, he tumbled and landed on the ballobot, which had rolled underneath him to intercept his fall. Curling over it and splaying his palms against the ground for balance, Cliff gasped, shuttering his optics tightly as his vision spun and a burning sensation spread over the small of his back.

“That was a mid-level stun blast,” the guard advised, a whine informing the dazed mech that his weapon was still at the ready. “If you don’t vacate the premises, I’ll have to escort you.”

“Ahh, it’s alright, you don’t have to,” Lifeline assured him unconcernedly. “Let him stay; we were just leaving anyway…So long, Cliff!”

Trembling in combined pain and fury, Cliffjumper listened to their receding footsteps, trying to reorient his sense of balance. _Holy slag, I’ve been shot—I’ve fraggin’ been shot!_ The ballobot gradually spun underneath him, gently coaxing him onto the ground adjacent before rolling around him, apparently appraising his damage. Propping himself up on his elbows with a struggle, Cliffjumper hissed through his teeth, overly-bright optics locked onto the securitymech, who checked his chronometer and met his gaze coolly.

“Y-You…Did you get bribed too?” Cliff hissed, spark racing with so much dismay, defeat and desperation that he couldn’t quite force himself to stand, though his processor was demanding he do so and thrash the mech standing over him into the iron pathways.

“No, all I see is a mech who needed to be restrained,” the security guard retorted before pausing thoughtfully. “Although…thanks for that admission fee. Now that my shift’s over, I’ll be on my way.”

Cliffjumper gaped after him as he strode away. “Frag,” he whispered in astonishment, trying to get to his feet and groaning. The ballobot slid under one of his hands, offering some leverage, and he patted it softly before hugging his arms around himself, swallowing several times as the last sneak thief grew smaller in the distance. It would hurt like the Pit to sprint after him, but he had to bear down; he owed that to his sire for trusting him with that credit stick!

He’d hardly vaulted two yards before his comm. link rang. Startled, he latched onto the nearest iron pillar and jammed his audial, bursting out, “Who is it?!”

“How are you, CJ?” an all-too-familiar voice questioned pleasantly. Cliffjumper was sure he felt all energon draining out of him, so he leaned against the pillar, spark pulse spiking hard, optics wide. Hypervolt was _calling_ him.

“I just got a call from Lifeline; he said you found out,” Hypervolt continued, some kind of twisted encouragement audible in his voice. “You’re better at investigating than I thought; I’d expected you to go to them at least a quintun after I left! I’m sorry for rushing out on you by the way, but you can probably understand why.”

 _Sorry? Understand?_ Cliffjumper was only registering bits and pieces of what Hypervolt was saying and he couldn’t find a single word to reply. Speechless, he listened to his former friend speak, as casual as if they had been discussing the different grades of energon.

“I actually think there’s a lot you might understand about what I did,” Hype remarked, chuckling offhandedly. “I mean, you were raised in the rich life. Once a mech gets a taste of it—once _I_ got a taste of it!—everything else seems so trivial. I see now why you never tried to make a friend; with all the credits you were being given, you could’ve _bought_ your friends! In my case, I guess you kind of did.”

When Cliffjumper still didn’t reply, Hype added, “I met your creators; they’re charming. What I did is exactly what they did—they wanted the high life, so they took some credits and they _got_ the high life. I’m sure they understand just as much as you can.” After a few more kliks of silence, the thief concluded cheerfully, “This has been a nice talk, but duty calls.”

Two words…Hypervolt snapped him with two words. The phrase “duty calls” brought such a rush of rage that Cliffjumper regained his voice, bellowing, “ _Duty?!_ You never worked for anything, you good-for-nothing spawn-of-a-scrapheap! I’m gonna _find_ you, you filthy retro-rat, and I’ll show you where you _really_ belong! By the Primes, when I get my hands on you, there’s not going to be enough to recycle!” A click told him Hypervolt had hastily hung up but now that Cliff had started, he couldn’t stop. “Tricurse you! I’m never gonna give up, _never! Blast you!!_ ”

Smashing a fist into the iron pillar, Cliffjumper ignored the sharp pain, clenching and unclenching his fingers and storming on. He didn’t know yet where he was going, but eventually he was going to find two things.

Before finding his way home, he was going to find a blaster that suited his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too bad that Hypervolt just fragged himself, since earlier Cliff was having a little bit of mercy for him. Obviously not anymore...


	13. Chapter 13

Tonight Rusty and Polevault had dropped by again, just as they had last evening, and if anything they had been even more excited to be there than before. No matter their reasons, their visits were one of the rare things that didn’t annoy Gears, especially since he and Polevault were working on feeling out a new friendship, more genuine than their last. He had been blinded by NET and she had been trying to gloss over her grief to protect his “innocence”, but neither was needed anymore.

Occasionally, if she had been contemplating her brother, Polevault would ask him subtly about what had been done to him and other NET patients, but when Gears inevitably changed the subject she didn’t pry. That was something he liked about her—she was curious, for good reason, but she was also patient. She had waited four vorns already; she could and would wait a little bit longer.

This time, Windcharger’s instrument had probably been the thing to coax them back, Gears decided as he escorted them out after a show from their **trilitare** which Gears could have admitted was pretty enjoyable. He _could_ have admitted that, but he wouldn’t. Instead he stayed outside for a few kliks longer, watching the pair fade into the faraway shadows and folding his arms against the cool air.

“Hey!” he heard Windcharger exclaim from inside. “They forgot their energon again!”

“Let’s split it up!” Huffer urged, sounding unnaturally cheerful. In part that was due to Gears’ influence—his talk with him last night—and now Gears was slightly regretting it. Huffer hadn’t stopped trying to _smile_ since then and it looked strange on him.

“Must be nice for ’em,” Brawn remarked, “having enough credits that they can just leave high-grade behind…”

Come to think of it, Gears hadn’t checked their depository in a few orns. Perhaps he should have been keeping a closer optic on it, but it had been too discouraging when he checked it each orn to find the same amount waiting for him, an amount all too meager. However, Brawn had given him the duty of handling their credits and their pay for last quintun ought to have come in by now. If they overlooked it simply because he hadn’t felt like looking, Brawn was sure to give him a lot of grief for it.

Reluctantly pulling his link out of subspace, Gears clicked back some of the paneling on his audial and snapped the small link card into his comm., letting it read off their information to him. Windcharger’s name wasn’t on the account since he had no income and even if he had, Gears suspected the depository clerks would freeze their account if they recognized their pace-mate’s name from the news.

Gears didn’t regret Windcharger’s coming in the least; in fact he was quite thankful to Brawn and Huffer for letting Windcharger into their ranks. Since Gears had murdered Car—since Gears had _defended Brawn_ from Cardsharp, he had felt…hollow. In the act he had honestly believed he had no other alternative, but once he’d done it, it had felt so _evil_. He and Windcharger had something of an understanding about that.

Brawn and Huffer hadn’t killed before, not for lack of wanting to kill some of those deserving it, but that didn’t change the fact that Gears and Windcharger were something the pace-leader and his One were not. Having someone close at hand who truly understood was the best thing that could have happened to Gears at that point.

Even so, Windcharger’s condition when he came could have been better. It would have been helpful if they had been blessed not just with a mech who worked hard but a mech who worked hard and earned something for it. Gears suspected he knew exactly what Windcharger would think if someone told him that: _I’m earning forgiveness._ Hopefully that idea was true.

Gears jerked out of his thoughts in time to hear the computer list off their current standings in the depository and frankly he was startled by it. He frowned. Since when had their pay risen by fifteen percent? That was very strange.

 _Maybe it’s a bonus from Hightop,_ he mused matter-of-factly, _a bribe to request that we behave. I wouldn’t put that past him. Or…it’s a thank-you for how well we behaved earlier_.

Either way it was nice to have a larger number for their credit count than usual, especially since Brawn hadn’t found that second job he was looking for, the one Gears supposedly didn’t know about. He scoffed lightly, shaking his helm in amusement.

After several diuns without any high-grade—diluted or otherwise—it had been easy enough for their leader to get reasonably lit-up last night. Unlike the others, Gears had been treated to high-grade for many vorns of his life and had the sense to drink it slowly, so it didn’t affect him as quickly.

Windcharger had stumbled off to recharge after finishing his portion and Brawn and Huffer had begun discussing the job-hunt in voices that they had apparently thought were discreet. When he’d first met them, Gears had treated them to an overcharge and had learned then to pay attention; that was usually when important topics of conversation came up and they weren’t as discreet as they thought they were.

“You found anything yet?” Huffer had asked, nudging Brawn with his arm a few times. “Any of those…things?”

“No,” Brawn sighed, dropping his chin into one hand. “It’s—it’s depressing. I’m ruining the one I have—least that’s what H-Hightop thinks—an’ there isn’t _any_ other job out there for a ruiner!”

“‘Ruiner’ isn’t a proper word,” Gears had pointed out, earning a couple of surprised blinks before Huffer had tugged on Brawn’s arm several times until the rotator cup in his shoulder had squeaked and he’d been shoved off. That hadn’t deterred him; Huffer had resorted to tapping him insistently until he had his attention.

“You’re not a ruiner, Brawn!” he announced firmly. “You’re a…a…” He’d paused, squinting as he searched for the right word, eventually coming up with, “… _correctifyer!_ ”

At that Gears had cringed, Brawn had burst out laughing and the subject had changed; Gears had been left to mull over what he’d just learned. As of yet he hadn’t figured out a way to help in the search and he hadn’t decided whether or not to tell Brawn and Huffer he knew about their secret plan. The idea of working for anyone other than Hightop was foreign to him but he could see they were only searching elsewhere out of necessity.

“Gears, you want your share?” Windcharger called out to him. Returning the depository link to its compartment, Gears rolled his optics.

“What d’you think, Charger? Of course I want it! It’s great for me; it’s gonna clear my olfactory sensor net, lube my vocalizer, synthesize coolant for my optics—”

“Too much information, okay?” Windcharger interrupted. “You can keep all that medical scrap to yourself.”

Elbowing past the performer, Gears swept his portion of the energon from the table and sipped it as he strode into the kitchen, hoping to rifle through the cabinets and find something interesting. He glared at the empty expanses of the first and second cabinets, only to gasp as he opened the third and discovered a shiny synthetic wrap close to the back, distinctive to a special brand of rusted lugnuts. He grinned and then caught himself, his mouth twisting skeptically.

“I thought we ran out of lugnuts,” he commented as he pulled the wrapping out, finding it already open.

“We did,” Brawn assured him. “That was about two diuns ago.”

“You should have some more high-grade and then maybe some coolant will do _your_ optics some good,” Gears informed him, waving the package before tucking it under his arm and waving as he went into the berthroom for some time alone, settling onto his recharge slab and taking half of the stack of data pads nearby, setting them close to his knee. Upon choosing one, he sipped his energon and then scanned the words somberly.

**_Gears:_ **

**_I hope the Neural Exploration Trial is treating you well, but know that they will never love you as much as your carrier and I do. Sooner or later I know you’ll come back to us; you were always a mech who could see through anyone to their clear motives. If NET is treating you to anything less or more than they should, you’ll see it and you’ll find a way to tell us. You’re creative and perceptive and I trust you to take care of yourself until we can see you again._ **

**_Your sire,_ **

**_Switch_ **

Sighing, Gears reread the words a second time and then a third. The words were so much grimmer than their writer was. Switch had been a prankster, someone always up for a laugh as long as no one got hurt; if someone got hurt, he would stop at nothing to save the unfortunate victim. If he was challenged or someone stood in his way in the process, he became fierce enough to bark and bite his way out of any corner.

 _Wait…I_ was _that victim. It must have burned him, not knowing where I was so he could save me!_ Gears realized, shuttering his optics and laying the pad aside, but he didn’t dare stop. This was his memorial of his creators, remembering their voices and how much they loved him. He took up another with a bit more care. He knew exactly which one this was; he had marked the casing to remind himself it was one of his favorites, but it never ceased to cause him deep sparkache as he read.

**_Dear Gears:_ **

**_My sweet bot…you don’t know how hard it is, loving you from a distance, but I always will. It’s entirely worth it; you are worth it. Though I haven’t heard you say it in several vorns now, you love us and you love your life. I have no doubt that’s why NET saw your potential for happiness and I don’t blame them for that. Instead I blame them for your absence; it seems that for your happiness we had to give you up entirely. If you are unhappy now, don’t fault us for that…All we ever wanted was your joy and our pride in you and I pray Primus has given us both._ **

**_Gadget_ **

“Gears?”

Gears startled, his energon sloshing slightly as he jerked his helm up to find Windcharger had crept into the room and was curiously eyeing him.

“What?” Gears barked, laying the pad face down and glaring at him defensively.

“Are you…ever going to explain about these data pads?” Windcharger questioned, tone neither nosy nor annoying but earnest. Gears was a bit surprised by that; since Brawn and Huffer had figured out what they were, neither had given them a second thought or glance, while Windcharger seemed genuinely interested in learning more about them. Thus far, Charger hadn’t been told about his creators. It was only a matter of time before he asked about them, as well as Brawn and Huffer’s.

With his status as an Unraveler, Brawn’s creators had disowned him completely, and Huffer’s creators were one with the Allspark. Gears had a feeling neither would have a savory reaction to the question, so Gears should probably give Windcharger at least one explanation that wouldn’t hurt his feelings in the process.

“Yeh, whatever,” he shrugged at last, trying to play it casual. “These are letters from my creators. They wrote them before they…” His vents hitched just a fraction before he swallowed and concluded, “…died.” Windcharger’s features melted into concern and Gears stuck his hand into the lugnut wrapping, explaining flatly, “They were in the Tangle of Sectors—I trust you heard about that—and I didn’t get the news until much later. When I went to pick up their things, I found these waiting to be sent to me, so…”

“I’m sorry, Gears,” Windcharger murmured. “Sorry for knocking them over, for one.” Moving in, he crouched close to them and wondered after a minute or two, “Why were they waiting? Why didn’t they just send them one by one?” When Gears didn’t answer right away, Windcharger glanced between him and the letters and ventured cautiously, “…Is it just cos you lived in Alchemist?”

“No,” Gears denied tersely, giving him a sharp look which only hardened further as he added, “I wasn’t just _living_ in Alchemist.”

“Well, what does that mean?”

“Ohh, Windcharger, you _know_ what that means.” Windcharger’s optics widened considerably and Gears gave him a pained smile. “Yeh…Let me ask, are you going to think any less of me for it?”

Windcharger immediately shook his helm and opened his mouth to deny it further, but the door slid open and Huffer poked his helm in. “Windcharger, it’s time to go to work,” he stated, sounding less than enthusiastic about it but audibly trying to seem brave about it.

“Alright, Huffer, let’s go then,” Windcharger agreed, straightening and leaving the room with a last glance in Gears’ direction. Gears watched them go and released an ex-vent he hadn’t known he was holding before downing his energon much quicker than he had intended; it would put NET out of his mind, at least for a little while.


	14. Chapter 14

Cliffjumper had been expecting to get no more than a minute of recharge the night after he talked to the basketrek team but found he actually recharged quite soundly, though he woke at least a joor and a half earlier than he usually did. Sighing, he turned over and his spark sank a little when he found no friend present to cajole him to rising. Then his spark hardened and he sat up, tossing aside his thermal tarp and striding for his morning fuel.

The high-grade was even better than what he’d had when Hypervolt was here; his carrier must have pulled strings to get him some of the energon from Solus, which all of the other sectors were clearly aware was the highest quality, minus what was provided in Alchemist.

Cliffjumper had absolutely no intention of sampling Alchemist fuel, but the Solus fuel was practically worthy of the Primes and calmed him down immensely—mostly by making his processors buzz until he couldn’t think about his problems. Laughing for no particular reason, he pushed the cube away as he wondered just how funny his manager’s reaction would be if he were to come to work overcharged like this. It would undoubtedly be a great show, but he wanted to avoid getting in any more trouble. Therefore he finished refueling with low-grade to balance himself out, focusing on the idea that he _needed_ to think of his problems in order to solve them.

 _I’m alone_ , he repeated to himself as his thoughts began to clear again. _I’m a loner_.

He was perfectly alright with being such a thing. He could manage quite well that way— _better_ , in fact. If he was alone, no one would ever get close enough to betray him or steal from him. That was beneficial to all parties—let him be alone and keep what belonged to him and let others find a much-needed work ethic.

“Duty calls,” he muttered what Hypervolt had said to him, engine revving of its own volition. “That piece of slag doesn’t know a thing about duty or loyalty or honor!”

Another benefit of being alone would be that there was no one to be used against him in his hunt, no one to get in the way, no one to bother questioning whether getting a weapon was necessary or not. He paused, recalling that he needed a license, which would require credits, and did a quick tally. This was the fifth orn, which meant his credits had been reimbursed! Today he could finally start paying off his debts and it would be one less thing to worry about!

Hurriedly Cliff called up his account, startled when he found the same message as he had the last few orns when he’d checked on the off-chance the credits had come early: **_Your depository has been closed for maintenance._** Scoffing in disbelief, he stood and started walking the length of the room, dialing up the depository and impatiently telling the clerk who answered why he was calling.

“Ohh,” the clerk laughed nervously, “you’re Sir Skydive’s creation. I’m very sorry, sir, but we’re still working on reimbursing you…I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience for someone such as yourself—”

“I’m not angry,” Cliffjumper snapped, his vocals saying otherwise. “And my standing doesn’t matter! All I want is my depository filled!”

“Well, we, um, we did tell your sire five _to seven_ orns for full reimbursement—”

“Five to seven?” Cliffjumper echoed, thinking back to what his sire had told him, optics widening with realization. “Oh. Yeh, he told me that…”

“I’m really sorry—”

“Thanks anyway,” Cliff sighed, shoulders drooping as he hung up and wiped a hand down his face. “ _Slag it!_ ” So much for taking something out of the equation. Finding himself unable to return to his fuel, he snatched up the pack of chrome-cakes to eat on the way. He was going to Hypervolt’s old workplace, The Morning Glory.

Last night after he’d left the basketrek courts, he’d forced himself to set aside his anger and do some research. He’d found that it was a restaurant/tavern combination only a short distance from him; he would be able to make a stop there and inquire about Hypervolt’s employment and still be able to reach his own work in time.

The restaurant was two stories high, coated in a milky but tactful yellow paint that, true to its name, played with the sunlight to bathe the place in a golden glory. Cliffjumper had no time to admire it, however; he could see a mech who was undoubtedly the manager shutting down the lights inside.

Breaking into a sprint, Cliff skidded to a stop in front of the glass door, tapping it with a finger to get the mech’s attention. The mech glanced his way and rolled his optics, shaking his helm. Cliffjumper tapped again, using two fingers, and received the same reaction with a rude gesture as a bonus. In response Cliffjumper reared back with a fist, optics narrowed meaningfully, and the mech fairly trotted to open the door for him.

“What the frag are you doing?!” he demanded. “We’re a night joint and we’re closed!”

“I need to ask you about a former employee,” Cliffjumper replied sternly.

“Listen, mech, I need to go home and recharge,” the manager complained, trying to push past him. Cliff promptly grabbed his arm and wrenched him back.

“Just answer my questions and then you can!” he ordered. “Hypervolt. You still have his résumé on file? I—I’m a potential employer of his and I need it, but there are some problems with our communication grid so I came to ask for it in person!”

“I pity the mech who has to work for you and your temper,” the manager grumbled before throwing up his free hand. “Who on Cybertron’s Hypervolt? I’ve never had an employee by the name!”

Fairly trembling in fury, Cliffjumper growled, using the grip he had on his arm to steer him into the door. “You better not lie to me when I ask this next one: were you _paid_ to say that if I asked about him?”

“No! What is your problem?!” the manager burst out, prying Cliff’s grip from him so he could shove him away. “Temperamental _and_ paranoid? You’re not gonna get far in business!” With these words he brushed himself down and took off. Cliffjumper whirled around, glaring at his retreating back.

“I am _not_ paranoid!” he hollered, earning the same hand gesture as before. Baring his teeth, he spun back around and kicked the door just enough to create a long, spidery crack before he retreated the way he had come, jamming a chrome cake into his mouth and, after he swallowed, sighing deeply. The fact that this was from his carrier must have made a bit of difference; the taste didn’t steal his anger, but it did calm his spark pulse a bit. Overbright had always had that effect—apparently gifts from her did too.

For some reason this brought to mind an instance from his sparklinghood, when a clan of **verriesen** had decided to grace the sector with their presence. Apparently the **verriesen** were of the high caste back in Iacon; though Cliffjumper had never ventured outside of Culumex, he was told the high caste lived in Towers far above the rest of the population.

That should have told him something about the visitors immediately, but he hadn’t cared much about castes at that point in his life; he was still in his first frame, all wide optics and a smile to charm even the hardest of warriors—Culumexian warriors, at least, who were infamous for their weakness toward sparklings.

_The outsiders were just as tall as little Cliffjumper had imagined their Towers to be; he was in awe of them, at least until he saw the sparkling traveling with them. He promptly pulled away from Overbright to greet the other mechling, only to stumble to a stop when the white and blue stranger glanced in his direction and announced, “You’re short!”_

_Confused by this statement, as he was already taller than all of his friends, Cliffjumper still tried for a smile as he squared his shoulders. “I’m gonna get bigger!”_

_“You’ll never be as big as I am,” the other sparkling insisted, letting his creators get farther ahead as he brought himself to full height, at least a foot or so taller than the little red Minibot._

_“Well…what does that matter?” Cliff asked, hugging his arms to his chest and shifting back and forth uncertainly._

_“Means you’ll never be as important as me!” the white and blue Towersmech announced, promptly pushing Cliffjumper out of his way. Cliff landed with a yelp, causing the creators, white and blue like their sparkling, to look back._

_“Raj, what are you doing back there?” the sire called in a warning tone. The sparkling froze, glancing uneasily at his creators as Cliffjumper scrambled upright, vents hitching tearfully. He didn’t mind when Overbright picked him up, even though they were in public where others could see._

_“You’re alright, sweetspark,” Overbright soothed as Cliff pressed his face against her shoulder. “It’s alright.” He could feel her EM field shift with something unpleasant, but he knew it wasn’t directed at him; she was no doubt glaring at the mean sparkling, who was prompted by his sire and mumbled some kind of apology. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Overbright questioned as the **verriesen** moved on. “Do you need anything, Cliffy? A good cry usually works.”_

_“Not out here,” Cliff murmured, not moving. “Don’t wanna embarrass you…Carrier, I—I’m important, right?”_

_“Of course you are,” Overbright assured him firmly. “And not just to me because I’m your carrier; you’re important to your sire, to Primus, to the Primes…one orn, you’ll be important to your pace too, and they’ll be important to you.”_

At the time, it had been a deep comfort, but as Cliffjumper of the present shoved the empty packaging into a disposal chute and slunk toward his stall, he mused, _Don’t think I’ll be getting a pace any time soon. I don’t want anyone involved with what I’m doin’. It’s…not important._

Miraculously he managed to get through most of the orn without any incident; all of the customers had decent manners, even if he couldn’t help them, and were fairly competent until the late afternoon. The mech in front of him wanted to change the password on his credit log.

“Right, then, I have changed your password to the word ‘red,’” Cliffjumper informed him.

“Red?” the mech echoed, glancing blankly between Cliffjumper and the credit scanner.

 _Apparently he’s unfamiliar with the color_. Keeping his voice even, Cliffjumper held out an arm for him to examine its paint. “Yes, _red_. Roger. Echo. Delta.”

“Hang on,” the customer interrupted. “I get to the ‘h’ in Echo and it won’t let me enter any more characters.”

“I am using the phonetic alphabet to spell out ‘red’ to you,” Cliffjumper growled out.

“So…what do I put now?”

“Just put the color red!”

“But ‘the color red’ doesn’t work! I just tried it!”

Cliffjumper bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Just type the word _red_. It’s spelled R-E-D.”

“Oh, I’m in now!” the customer exclaimed happily, looking up his credit log and nodding thoughtfully. “You should have just said that instead of Echo Delta Colors! Thank you very much!”

 _At least he was kind enough to thank me,_ Cliffjumper mused wearily, pressing his hands to his face to steel himself for the next customer. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

“You can hand over my credits, Cliffjumper.”

Dropping his hands, Cliffjumper gasped, “Long Run! I—I’m surprised to see you!” _Blast, blast!_

“I can see that,” Long Run answered flatly, planting one hand on the counter and extending the other. “I trust you came to work with my credit sticks on your person, seeing as you’re a few orns late to pay them back to me.”

“Uhh…no,” Cliffjumper admitted, hastening to add, “But the depository is working on it! Long Run, my account was—something went wrong with several transactions, so we’re working everything out. Trust me, in two more orns I’ll have every credit I owed you ready, I swear.”

Long Run stared at him with an unreadable expression for a full minute before shuttering his optics, shaking his helm and striding away. Cliffjumper watched him go, ex-venting in relief and trying to stay the agitation that had stirred in his systems.

After work, he made a quick decision to drop by The Mirror Front, the restaurant the basketrek team had said they would visit, just in case they decided to go a second night. To his frustration, there was no such fortune, but he decided to use one of his sire’s credit sticks to order a cube there. It was nice fuel but, ironically, not as good as what was waiting for him at home.

 _Things’ll look up for me,_ he told himself, doing his best to believe it as he trudged out of The Mirror Front into the dusk. The generators were still dark, but he suspected they would come on when he was almost halfway home. Until then, he just had to get back to the main road and stick to—

He never finished that thought, as a pain far, far worse than the court guard’s stunner tore through his shoulder. A gush of energon passed through his peripheral vision and then he was seized by foreign hands and sent somersaulting across the pavement. For a nanoklik he saw stars wheeling in the sky and then a mass of darkness loomed, blocking them out entirely.


	15. Chapter 15

_Why, why did he come with me?_ Windcharger wondered, studying Huffer inconspicuously as he sorted through the scattered trash that hadn’t quite made it to the disposal chute only a foot or so away. The other mech was standing motionlessly with his back turned toward his pace-mate, optics undoubtedly fixed in the direction of the main road.

The building that had demanded Windcharger’s services was set further back from the rest of the businesses—why, neither of them knew—but Windcharger wasn’t ignorant; he had noticed Huffer hesitate to take that step away from what he believed to be relative safety. Windcharger had taken that opportunity to tell him it was alright if he wanted to go back, but Huffer had cut him off.

“No, no, I have to stay with you,” he insisted hurriedly. Windcharger wasn’t sure if, in Huffer’s mind, that was for Windcharger’s safety or because he didn’t want to make the walk back on his own. Either way, it only stirred more guilt for him.

No matter how anyone were to twist it, Windcharger was responsible for Huffer’s current condition. The trauma of thinking Brawn and Gears were lost in the Archive collapse had been grievous enough; Windcharger had seen how desperately scared he was. The addition of his abduction had helped precisely nothing.

It was Windcharger who put the Archive down and it was Windcharger’s friends who had taken him and tried to kill him. Huffer’s fear outside of home was _his_ fault and, in a way, was completely justified. Windcharger wasn’t too fond of the darkness either. It raised unfounded notions of Incinerator somehow getting out of stasis prison or Strain somehow reverting to his previous state of mind and returning, evil as he’d always been.

 _He was undercover,_ Windcharger recalled. He wondered sometimes what Huffer had been through while he was with them. Windcharger had seen him drugged and cuffed but then a long span had passed before he’d been found, riddled with burns and energon. What had happened during the span of time between the two scenes was a mystery to him but he didn’t dare ask. He suspected he would never find out and he was doing his best to be satisfied with that; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but if he did, it was simply out of concern for his pace’s One.

 _We don’t know each other that well and until he starts to trust strangers again, you just need to back off,_ he reminded himself just before he kicked an empty Visco can. To his astonishment, Huffer jumped with a sharp cry and bolted, easily clearing twelve yards or so in his scramble before spinning around and fixing him with wide optics, eerily bright in the darkness. Windcharger swallowed hard. _That’s how bad it is?_

“Sorry,” he mustered, gesturing to the can. “It was an accident.”

Huffer slowly unwound from his defensive at-the-ready posture and walked stiffly back, folding his arms and rebooting his vocalizer a few times. Awkward silence reigned for several minutes and then Windcharger looked over. Huffer was now looking up at the sky, shifting restively as his vents gradually kicked out of high-gear.

“You okay?” he asked cautiously. Huffer blinked a few times but otherwise didn’t react, so he added a bit more lightsparkedly, “You’re fast as a rhodium-rabbit when you want to be.”

“Believe me, I _do_ want to be,” Huffer murmured, still not quite looking at him.

Windcharger wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he didn’t, gathering up the waste materials that were magnetic using his augmentation and stuffing them down the chute. The rest he would have to do by hand, which was unpleasant because of the oily, sticky parts he had to gather, but it wasn’t the Pits of the job. The worst of it would come afterward.

He sorted through a pile of trash at least a foot deep before crouching to snatch up energon cube fragments caked in dried mercury sauce, but before he could, something soft hit his shoulder. When he looked, he found a shammy lying on the ground beside him.

“What’s this for?” he questioned.

“You should at least try not to cut your fingers,” Huffer pointed out.

Chuckling, Windcharger lifted his hands to show off the grime on them. “You couldn’t’ve given me this sooner?” So saying, he meticulously cleaned off his digits before using the shammy to sweep the cybre-glass shards into the pile.

“You couldn’t’ve brought a shammy of your own?” Huffer shot back, though there was a lighter note in his vocals that informed Windcharger he was teasing.

Here they were out alone in the dark, far from any sort of help, and they were—what, bonding? Testing the oil pool one strut at a time?

 _Well, I’ll take what I can get,_ Windcharger decided, shrugging. “Never thought of it. I’ve been in such a hurry to get out here and do good work for the public that I don’t bring very many tools with me.” That was a simple answer, but if he were to get closer to the real reason, he would need to keep talking. Keeping his tone nonchalant, he added, “How am I doing?”

“You’ve gotten all the trash I could see—”

“No, I mean with the public,” Windcharger interrupted. “You think I’m doing good by them? Whenever I leave the house…Whenever I leave _home_ , I’m preoccupied with that, wondering. I mean, I know they beat the scrap out of me and throw things at me and curse me to the Chaos-Bringer, but do you think somewhere deep down they appreciate what I’m doing, since I’m trying to make up for…everything?”

Huffer hesitated, which in and of itself could be considered an answer, but Windcharger reminded himself to be patient. “You’d ask me?” Huffer remarked instead of answering right away. “That’s pointless. I just made myself look like a complete miss-clock when you made a bit of noise. You should know that I distrust the public as much as they distrust you.”

“Huh. Does that mean you trust _me?_ ”

There was another hesitation, far longer than the last, but Windcharger tried to seem uncaring about it, heaving up the junk into his arms and ignoring anything that dribbled down his chest. Once he shoved it down the disposal chute after the rest, he took a scrub brush from his subspace and clambered up after it.

“What are you doing?” Huffer asked, seeming determined to change the subject. “You’re going to fall in!”

“No, I won’t,” Windcharger assured him. “I’ll magnetize myself to the walls of the chute and then scrub its interior; it’s what I’ve been doing since orn one, all the way down to the sewer.”

Huffer’s optics softened in realization. “That’s why you’re always…Windcharger, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Windcharger brushed it off. “There’s nothing wrong with the dirty work; Incinerator always made me do it too.”

“Please don’t say his name again,” Huffer burst out almost before he could finish the sentence. Windcharger grimaced and Huffer returned it, stammering, “I-I-I don’t like to think about it…”

“I know,” Windcharger agreed quietly. “It’s not great to think about. Sorry if I—” Before he could finish, there was another noise, far louder than when he had kicked the can, set off like a shot from somewhere close. Windcharger startled and very nearly did fall in as Huffer had predicted, but his pace-mate crossed the distance and caught hold of his arm before he could.

“What was that?!” he demanded in alarm.

“I think that was a blaster,” Windcharger replied in disbelief, climbing out of the chute and tossing aside the scrub brush as he could see several shadows at a distance and his sensitive audials picked up the clamor. “C’mon!” he urged, ignoring Huffer’s protestations as he hurried toward the scene.

As the generators along the main road kicked on, Windcharger could distinguish by their light five large mechs, all painted in hues of green and blue and gray that looked black against the night. Struggling against the combined forces, smallest and brightest in the group, was a red mech all too familiar.

“Cliffjumper?!” Huffer gasped panically. “Wh-What’s happening?!”

Though what was happening was clear, to their alarmed optics the scene was chaotic and blurred: the five larger ones tangling into one mass of fists, striking the smaller mech down again and again, but Cliffjumper was holding his own, lashing and kicking where he could but gradually weakening. Each time he struggled back onto his feet, Windcharger glimpsed a stream of energon a bit wider and thicker than the last.

“It doesn’t matter,” he shot back. “We have to do something!” Huffer could barely open his mouth to argue before Windcharger was off, lunging at the attacker who was closest, currently hammering the base of a smoking blaster into Cliffjumper’s back. Windcharger snatched at his arms, trying to hinder him, but the one arm he did catch was much longer than he thought. It bent, seized him by the shoulder that was still recovering, and flung him to the side.

He tried to roll gracefully to spare his recovering shoulder any more damage and then went for a different angle, locking himself around his adversary’s legs. He twisted, ignoring the pain as one of the accomplices stepped on him, and managed to make his target stumble with an audible creak from his knees. This worked both for and against him as the mech landed heavily on top of him. Wincing, he strained to free his arms, listening to energon pumping hard in his audials. Looking around wildly, he tried to gauge what was happening.

Huffer was pounding at a foe’s lower chassis, never pausing even as the mech staggered away from the assault. One of the others rushed to intervene, catching the engineer by the waist and constricting him with his arms until he cried out and was forced to go limp. Catching onto the idea, Windcharger focused on his own vents, trying to relax just enough that he could slip his arms free. Once he did, he used his magnetics to hurl the dead weight off of him. With a deft swing of his arms he tore Huffer and his captor apart, setting his pace-mate down gently. The enemy was treated to several face-first meetings with the pavement and in return Huffer shoved Windcharger out of the way and gave a solid crack to the throat to the mech Windcharger had tripped, who was just getting up.

Cliffjumper had summoned all of his strength; he was scaling one of the pair still attacking him, clambering over him like a scraplet in some vain attempt to find a weak spot, but there was nothing. The free mech was hauling him off of his comrade, striking glancing blows as he did so. Windcharger lifted a hand and twisted it, sending Cliffjumper’s target off-balance. The second mech hit the wrong target. As Cliffjumper dropped, Windcharger added his free hand and smashed the two foes together, ending the clash.

Cliffjumper was on hands and knees, frame rattling as he fumbled to stand. Energon was forming several puddles around him and Windcharger used a bit more of his energy to coax the red mech upright. Cliffjumper blinked dazedly down at his arms, looking for the hands helping him up, but couldn’t find any.

Once the grocer was upright, Windcharger powered down his magnetism. “Hey,” he ventured anxiously, “if you’re thinking of going anywhere, I’m calling a hospital!”

“No…no, I jus’ feel…I feel…” Optics glazing over and vocals trailing off into a slur, Cliff wavered for a klik or two and then collapsed, though Huffer managed to catch him before he hit the ground. Easing him down gently, Huffer pressed a hand against his side where his vents were, earning a shallow wheeze.

“Call faster, Windcharger, or there won’t be a spark to save when they get here!” he ordered frantically, letting Cliffjumper slump against him and pursing his lips as energon seeped through his fingers.


	16. Chapter 16

_Where…?_

The rest of Cliffjumper’s thought was intangible, out of his grasp. His processors felt like they were bogged down by too much data but he couldn’t find the will to sort through it.

His sense of time was a blur. The only awareness he could recall was pain and fuzziness and unknown bots painted in white and red telling him he would be just fine. He had the impression that his creators had come by, but judging by the lack of their distinctive voices and the lack of any hand holding his, it had been a dream.

When he pried his optics open, bleary from the drugs and unsure of what had happened, all colors seemed like they were inverted, gripping him in a terrible helm-ache that gave him the alarming sensation of being drowned, hot and cold at once. It pushed him back under.

This happened several times until finally, _finally_ the colors began to cooperate with his vision, the tightness in his chest eased and while his processors still felt like they were lagging, it had ebbed enough that he could start focusing on where he was.

Had he actually defeated his attackers or had his escape been a stasis dream as his creators’ presence was? Was he even in stasis at all? Small thought bursts were getting through, but the one that was clearest was that this could be the start of his journey to the Allspark. Was he dying?

 _Of course not. I’d never die over a stupid debt…_ Thus decided, he tried to soak in whatever was surrounding him for more information. The overly bright white walls, the smell of coolant and cleanser, and how utterly painless he felt despite everything that had happened clued him in perfectly.

Cliffjumper was not and had never been enthusiastic about visiting hospitals; everything about them was foreign—the smell, the room, the bots taking care of the patient. The last time he had been in a hospital was when Hypervolt had dented his helm by pitching a ballobot, the first time they’d met, but thanks to whatever drug he was on, the thought was just a fleeting discomfort. When he found a visitor in his room, however, not even the painkillers could stifle his surprise. His vents hitched with a blunt lance of pain.

“Wh—” he croaked, clenching his jaw tightly as he tried to reboot his vocalizer, getting a hiccup from it instead.

Brawn stood at the foot of the medical berth, arms folded, studying him with intent focus. “You got yourself in a scrap worthy of the Zealots’ rallies before a **leivenustre** ,” he stated, deliberately impassive. “You remember that?”

Trying to shift further into the pillows—further from Brawn’s reach—and finding his limbs too limp to obey him, Cliffjumper tried to ignore his anxiety and thought back. He recalled energon, rolling across the pavement, something hitting his back several times, and shouts that may or may not have been him. “I-I-hhh—” His vocalizer crackled again and Brawn moved around the berth, causing Cliff to tense.

“Here,” the pace-leader said shortly, tipping an energon cube close to his mouth. Some of it spilled down his bandaged chest but Cliff couldn’t find it in himself to care; he drank greedily until he coughed and turned his face away. “What do you remember?” Brawn repeated, returning to his previous place at the end of the berth.

“I remember starting to walk home,” Cliffjumper replied in a whisper. “The beginning of the fight…I kept falling. Then I think I felt…kind of _buzzy_ …or quivery, like something was making me vibrate. But you—what’re you doin’ here?” He couldn’t wrap his mind around any sort of explanation for Brawn’s presence but he couldn’t muster any anger about it either. Instead he felt the compression in his chest start to stir again. Coughing nervously, he added, “Not gonna jump me like you tried to the _last_ time I saw you…are you?”

“Someone else beat me to it, obviously,” Brawn snarked humorlessly. “You’re surprised about _me_ being here? Well, brace yourself.” Tapping a finger against his audial, he announced, “Hey, guys, he’s awake, and by the way, a little warning? He looks just as bad when he’s awake as he does when he’s in stasis.”

On that note the door slid open and Huffer rounded the corner, optics narrowing as he paused in the entryway.

“You’re wrong, Brawn,” he sighed. “He looks _worse_.” So saying, he came to stand at Brawn’s side and the red and blue pace-mate, the one Cliffjumper couldn’t name, came in too, nodding sagely in agreement with Huffer’s words at the same time he was talking on his comm.

“Yeah, Polevault, we’re here at the hospital with that grocer fellow. _No_ , none of us are home. Okay, I’ll give you an update when we’re finished here.” Hanging up, he commented, “Since she got together with your friend, Brawn, Polevault’s been all questions to me. Isn’t having a relationship supposed to _cement_ a femme or something?”

“That’s why we have paces, Gears, to stabilize,” Windcharger pointed out, hot on the third’s heelstruts into the room.

“Get out,” Cliff commanded, coughing. “You psychopathic little fra—”

“Careful how you speak to him,” the red and blue mech, Gears, rebuked him sharply. “He was the one who ended that little squabble of yours and hauled your leaking, stasis-locked skidplate here.”

Cliffjumper couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped as he glanced between the speaker and Windcharger, who spread his hands. “What can I say? I don’t like bullies either,” he explained grimly. “So now we’re even.”

“We’re not gonna be even anytime soon,” Cliffjumper hissed, wincing and glancing longingly at the medication dial, which was fixed just out of his reach. “Not till you’re back in your pretty stasis pod and I don’t have to see you walkin’ free on the streets—” He paused, mouth opening further as Windcharger scoffed lightly and turned the dial several notches. Ex-venting slowly as the pain relief took effect, he concluded in a softer tone, “—just like Hypervolt.”

Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed them sharing puzzled glances and shrugs, but by the time he looked back at them, they had all returned their attention to him. He blinked back at them, mumbling absentmindedly, “I say somethin’…?”

Huffer peered cautiously at the medical dial and gave Windcharger a chiding look.

“If they don’t want us touching it, they should’ve put a code on it,” Windcharger pointed out.

Gears rolled his optics at the both of them before demanding, “Cliffjumper, what’d those mechs want with you?”

“What did you get my pace involved in?” Brawn added sternly. “Cos from what I’ve heard, you got those tools pretty steamed.”

Cliffjumper shrugged mildly before repeating the action to work the stiffness out of his shoulders. “I couldn’t pay a debt,” he admitted. “A s-so-called friend of mine, he was takin’ credits from me on the down-low.” Loosely clenching his fists, he briefly closed his optics. “I have _no_ idea where he went with ’em and I’ve just been holding on, you know what I mean? I just…I don’t know. That group was with my loaner, Long Run—I’m sure of it, but I explained! I told him it was gonna be okay, but he didn’t listen…It would’ve been just two more orns…”

For a nanoklik the idea passed into his mind that this should bother him. He didn’t need to share all of this information, but even under normal circumstances he wasn’t exactly renowned for having a filter and for being in a hospital with mechs he didn’t like, he was feeling surprisingly safe. There was a group here who had at least cared enough to save his aft and that was strangely comforting.

 _But I’m a loner,_ he recalled, frowning lightly. _I’m alone, aren’t I?_ Before he could sort through the contradiction, a medic entered the room, greeting them all politely. Windcharger promptly strode toward the window to the left, placing his back to the room, and Huffer casually moved to Brawn’s _other_ side so he would block the medic’s view further.

“You’re the leader of this pace, sir?” the medic questioned. Brawn nodded firmly and the medic studied a chart for a klik before half-turning toward Cliffjumper and continuing, “I believe we still need to discuss payment?”

“Wait, he doesn’t have the…” Brawn faltered. “We’re the—I mean, he’s—”

“Are you his pace-mate or his sire?” the medic asked, smiling patiently. Brawn took a step back, aghast at the extrapolation.

“Skydive of Epistemus is my sire!” Cliffjumper called loudly, thinking to help Brawn out a little since he had just spared his pride about the debts. The medic jerked in surprise and Cliffjumper smiled widely. “Y’know him?”

“Oh, yes,” the medic confirmed. “He was on our fine city’s High Council as the Epistemus representative, though he resigned just diuns ago.”

“Yeah, he lives in Solus now,” Cliffjumper explained happily, overlooking how she was embellishing her words and inclining her helm slightly now that she knew who he was. “He…hmm, he hasn’t been told I’m here yet,” Cliff realized belatedly.

“I’ll be sure to give him a call,” the medic assured him. “You’ll be able to leave tomorrow, but since it’s a long journey from Solus to Nexus and you have no other kin present, you’ll need some supervision tonight and in the morning until he arrives and I’m sure these fine friends of yours wouldn’t mind!”

Before Brawn could even open his mouth to protest, she was on her way, calling, “I’ll have someone come in to check your energy levels in a few joors, alright?”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Huffer smacked Brawn’s arm, crying, “We can’t stay here! We—we’re not his _friends_ and Windcharger can’t keep facing the window every time someone comes in! What if someone recognizes him? Or _you?!_ And I’ll bet anything the mechs who attacked him are going to come to this same hospital, so what’ll we do if they want to finish the job?!”

“Buck up,” Brawn shushed him, glaring at the closed door before continuing. “No, we’re not his friends, but you heard her. His snippity sire isn’t going to be here till tomorrow, so we’re the only ones who know. If anyone comes, Windcharger can just go to the washroom; it’s simple, in-and-out. I went to a different hospital for my injuries when _that incident_ with ’Sharp happened. And really, I don’t think the attackers are gonna come here for treatment cos the medics’ll ask questions and what they were doing was illegal.”

“Got all that?” Gears prompted impatiently, glowering.

Venting quickly, Huffer jerked a nod, frowning worriedly between Brawn and the door.

“Why’s everyone scowling?” Cliffjumper asked curiously. When the frowns turned to him as though he were the source of the problem, he vaguely waved a hand at them. “Never mind…I won’t ask if you won't tell.”

“Unlike you, we're not on painkillers, so no, we won't tell,” Gears replied. Cliff smiled forgivingly; it didn't matter. For the first time he could remember in a while, he was in quite the good mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That good mood'll wear off as soon as one of the medics notices how Windcharger fixed his painkillers, but I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, CJ! You deserve that at least! XD


	17. Chapter 17

Of all things Brawn had suspected he would use his sick time for, he never would have considered a hospitalized cashier to be one of the options. He also would have hoped he could recharge a while longer than usual on a sick orn, but since they had all gotten home from the hospital so late, he had been too agitated to recharge properly, so when he finally opened his optics, light was barely coming through the window. He sat up, running his hands down his face with a harsh ex-vent before pressing them against his audials to muffle his roommate’s unconscious whimpering. He couldn’t bring himself to try waking Huffer yet; he had to have a nanoklik to _think_.

They would be picking up Cliffjumper later this morning and Brawn wasn’t quite sure what he thought of that. This was the mech who insisted on calling Huffer ‘Jitters’ and calling Windcharger a murderer, a psychopath deserving of nothing but stasis for the foreseeable future. When he’d last come here, he was clearly willing to beat the slag out of him. He’d insulted their home and their pace! Yet here was the same pace being coerced into welcoming him into the same home.

 _Don’t think about it now,_ he ordered himself wearily. _Just try to find some breakfast you can split between the four of you without any complaints._ Rising, he stumbled into the kitchen and threw open one of the cabinets, only to recoil a few feet as several foreign packages spilled out onto the counter.

Gingerly picking them up, Brawn examined them closely and then peered into the cabinet, finding several brands he recognized from the section of the marketplace he and Huffer tried to avoid at all costs, the one that was out of their price range— _far_ out of it. The very fact that what looked like half of the selection was sitting in their kitchen was alarming.

Dropping the fuel onto the counter, he opened the other cabinets, finding more of the same and growing more amazed by the klik. Stepping back, he stared at it all for a long minute and then spun around, striding into the front room and nudging Huffer’s back with his foot until his friend’s inevitable jump to full-throttle.

“Brawn! What is it? What’s wrong?!” Huffer exclaimed fretfully, but Brawn was already on his way into the other room.

“Hey!” he barked. “Get up, both of you! Out here now!”

Windcharger shifted languidly, uncurling from his tightly-wound position one fraction at a time, and while Gears’ optics came online he made no attempt to move, so Brawn took action, peeling off their thermal tarps and hefting one pace-mate over each shoulder. The pace-leader ignored their squawks of dismay and indignation and set them on the floor in front of the kitchen entryway, locking optics with each of them in turn.

“Well?” he burst out.

“Well’, what?” Windcharger ricocheted blankly.

“One of you knows _exactly_ what and I want whichever one it is to spill it. Now!”

“Brawn—” Huffer sighed, simultaneously as Gears opened his mouth to complain.

“Not a word!” Brawn cut them both off. “Don’t say a word about recharge! You were having a nightmare anyway, Huffer; the whimpering gave you away. Gears, you’ve made such a fuss about Windcharger being in your room that I’m surprised you recharge at all, and you, Charger, you…” He shook his helm, unable to come up with a retort for him, so instead he moved out of their line of vision and waved his hands frenziedly at the cabinets standing open. “What is all this?!” he demanded, trying in vain to see past their seemingly innocent expressions of shock. “Gears, did you spend all of our credits on _this?!_ ”

“Why’re you blaming me?!” Gears snapped, earning pointed looks from all three of his mates. “Ugh, just because I actually _care_ about my health doesn’t mean I would put us on the street by purchasing fuel!”

“Where’d it come from then, if we didn’t buy it?” Brawn shot back, stiffening as another idea came to him. From the expressions on their faces, he was sure his entire demeanor had darkened as he warned, “If one of us here _stole_ it and I’m about to find out like this, you get five kliks to run.”

Gears and Huffer glanced at each other with wide optics before pinning Windcharger between them. In response he glowered at them both. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, pace-mates,” he growled. “It wasn’t here when Huffer and I left for work and then we were too busy fighting for Cliffjumper’s life, so Gears and Brawn were the only ones with time to spare!”

“It wasn’t here when we got your call and left for the hospital either,” Brawn argued. “After that, none of us were even home!” He noticed Gears perk up and jabbed a finger at him. “What?”

“None of us were home,” Gears repeated, optics kindling with the fire of realization. “And I can think of a couple friends of ours who made sure I _clarified_ that for them over the comm.”

“That’s what you were saying to Polevault when we went into the room,” Windcharger recalled.

“Yeah, she asked a few times.”

Slowly unwinding from his interrogatory posture, Brawn glanced between his pace-mates and the cabinets. “How realistic is it that Rusty and Polevault would leave their energon here at our house _twice?_ ” he asked dully, internally kicking himself for not making this realization sooner—and for embarrassing himself by accusing his pace-mates who he knew so well of going behind his back. He gave them an apologetic lift of the hands and they nodded in response.

“Guess we should eat breakfast, then?” Windcharger asked hopefully. “Since it’s all here.”

Managing a smile, Brawn nodded. “Sure.”

Thus decided, each of them raced to the cabinets to grab some fuel, either an old favorite they couldn’t have afforded for diuns or something new to try that seemed interesting. Once they were all outfitted with their choices, they settled onto the floor in the front room.

“I didn’t even remember fuel could taste this great,” Windcharger admitted as he finished off a sizeable mercury-muffler and started on another one.

“Don’t refuel so fast! You’re going to slag up your internals,” Huffer warned.

“Says the One who just blew through three circuitmon rolls,” Gears reminded him around his last bite of his two pentacakes. “Y’know, this is just like what happened with our account.”

Brawn looked up from his silicon wafers. “What about our account?” he asked warily. Gears shrugged.

“We got some kind of increase, I think. Another fifteen percent’s been added.”

“Oh, you don’t think they would…?” Huffer trailed off. Since they were sitting next to each other, Brawn could sense worry in his EM field as he peeked over.

They were not accepters of charity, mostly due to Brawn’s influence. In his mind, accepting charity could simply be a way of escaping the duty to earn your keep. Now, however, it could go either way. Brawn considered as he swallowed and then huffed.

“Right now I’m too glad to be fully fueled to get my plating in a twist about it,” he decided. “What they do with their credits is their business.”

“Even if that means making them our credits? Well…great!” Gears clarified before leaping to his feet and racing back to the kitchen, eager for the first time Brawn could remember since Windcharger’s visit to the hospital after his burnout had cost them so much.

“By the way, Gears, that’s your last trip,” Brawn called sternly. “We need to be sure we’ll save something for Cliffjumper.”

Gears stopped up short, gripping the doorway to recover his balance and spin around in one jerky motion. Brawn met his incredulous stare steadily, ignoring the sensation of the other two pinning him from the other side.

“How long’s he staying?” Gears asked skeptically to break the uncomfortable silence. “And where’s he recharging? Cos I know it’s definitely not going to be in my—er, _our_ room!”

Saying nothing of the obvious slip, Windcharger rolled his optics and agreed, “Valid questions, Brawn. How do we know he’s not going to try throttling me in my recharge? He might spare Gears, simply cos he hasn’t fragged him off too badly, but you and Huffer—”

Huffer’s vents hitched and Brawn shook his helm vigorously, interjecting, “He’ll stay as long as he needs to and really, do you think he’s in any condition to throttle anyone? Besides, we’ve got several light rechargers, don’t we? We’ll hear him coming from yards away and send him back to the hospital if we have to—and we _won’t_ have to. Got it?” Climbing to his feet, he helped Huffer up after him and announced, “We’re going to pick him up.”

“Don’t leave the scraps on the floor,” Huffer called over his shoulder as they left, keeping his optics on his feet during the first several minutes of the walk. It was a rare thing for Brawn to see; usually Huffer was always on the defensive, optics tracking each movement around him. This either meant a bit of improvement or a sense of trust that Brawn would protect him if they were taken by surprise. Either way, it stirred some of Brawn’s pride and he slung an arm around his shoulders, feeling his small flinch but opting not to mention it.

“What’s that for?” Huffer asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

“Nothing, really,” Brawn admitted good-naturedly. “…You do know we’re gonna be just fine, right? Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Brawn, you know that’s not true.” Brawn pursed his lips and said nothing, so Huffer continued, “You’re getting that feeling again, aren’t you? You wouldn’t say that unless you _know_ something’s going to happen.”

The feeling Huffer was speaking of was one Brawn had mentioned to him offhandedly once or twice. He’d neglected to mention this prickly premonition had stirred just before a mech named Twincharge had arrived at their door—with the location of their future **sequein** , armed with a new circuit card—and just before the Archive came down—brought down as their future **trilitare’s** grand entrance.

His reminiscence had gone on a few kliks too long, as Huffer was now waving a hand dismissively. “You don’t have to admit it. I already know, but just tell me ahead of time so I can…well, duck. Can you do that?”

“Sure, I can,” Brawn promised solemnly as the hospital came into view.

When they reached Cliffjumper’s floor, they simultaneously cringed upon hearing an all-too-familiar voice hollering choice words at several medics.

“I’m totally fine! Leave me the frag alone! You over there—unless it’s your job to stand there and be an ornament, give that IV back or shove it up your blasted afterburner! Apparently I don’t _need_ any painkillers for my blasted _killer pain!_ That sounds perfectly reasonable, I don’t give scrap! Nice, twisted operation you have here, you half-clocks!”

“Of course they take him off the good stuff right before we take him home,” Huffer mumbled as they strode down the hall.

“We could always drop by a fissure vent on the way home,” Brawn teased.

“Because our local grocer is miss-clocked enough to be a domer,” Huffer snarked back, shrinking back a few steps at a sudden crash from inside the room. Brawn gave him a brief but meaningful look as the doors opened and a disgruntled young medic stumbled out.

“We’re here to pick him up,” Brawn informed him.

“Thank the Thirteen!” the medic exclaimed with a slightly crazed laugh. “He’s on a crutch for the rest of the orn. Make sure he uses it or he’s gonna slag up his backstrut and we’ll have to see him again _sooner!_ Do anything you can to prevent that!”

As the junior medic fled, Brawn and Huffer shared a resigned glance before joining the professionals to end the struggle between the temperamental patient and one of the other mechs over the painkillers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he's not blitzed, Cliffjumper's even worse than Brawn when it comes to medical treatment! :/  
> On another note, have I mentioned how fun it is to use names for Cybertronian foods?!


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn’t easy for Cliffjumper to keep up with Brawn and Huffer on a crutch; they weren’t exactly being considerate about their speed, but occasionally they did glance back to see if he was still behind them. Each time they did, he would pull a face or make a rude gesture, something to tell them he was quite unhappy with his current situation.

In return to his ire, Brawn would simply roll his optics and Huffer barely gave any reaction at all; they seemed used to dealing with antagonistic mechs. Most bots didn’t know how to handle him and his temperament and the fact that these mechs did only annoyed Cliffjumper more, as well as stirring some of his curiosity. What had happened to them that had toughened them like this? They were tough enough that their most panicky fellow could simply blow him off, but _how?_ He wasn’t used to this. Why did it have to be _these_ mechs, who were _supposed_ to acknowledge who and what he was? He was their rival just as much as they were his, wasn’t he? Each time these questions rose to his throat, he promptly crushed them before they could get through, focusing on his frustration with this reality.

Despite everything, however, their destination was worse. So far, Gears was the only one who hadn’t provoked him, so Cliffjumper intended to address him cordially. He tried not to insult bots unless he was sure they deserved it, though most thought he jumped to conclusions on that point. It was absurd to think so. For example, Cliff was not looking forward to facing that glitch Windcharger again. Why? Because he was _glitched_ ; it was a simple reason that made sense!

 _That wingnut just got angry one orn and decided, “I’m in the mood to put the hurt on someone and I’ll decide just how much hurt while I’m doing it! It’ll depend on how steamed I am with who I’m hurting!” How fragged in the helm do you have to be to—?_ Cliffjumper didn’t finish that thought, as another had already started: _Isn’t that exactly what I thought about Hype when he called me? I was steamed enough to…_ As the pace’s home again came into view, he didn’t finish that thought either. Wrenching the painkillers supplied to him out of subspace, he downed three or four before forcing himself forward. These painkillers weren’t nearly as effective as what had been given to him at the hospital.

“Hey, Gears,” Cliff greeted as he reached the doorway. Gears, who was sorting fuel reserves in the kitchen, waved a hand distractedly but didn’t turn. Cliffjumper pointedly ignored Windcharger, though he could feel the killer’s optics tracking his movements. Curiously Cliffjumper peered over Gears’ shoulder, optics widening when he spotted a dessert plated entirely in silver.

“Fraggin’ Pits, that’s a Salmiac-Serendipity!”

“Hey,” Brawn snapped, “if you’re in my house, you watch your language.” Cliff gave him an exaggerated, lingering roll of the optics and Brawn pushed past him, picking up the treat he’d pointed out. “So you know what this is?”

“I just named it, didn’t I?” Cliffjumper pointed out snarkily. “How’d you get it?”

“None of your business,” Brawn answered promptly, scoffing a klik later. “Should’ve figured you’d know one when you saw one, since you’ve got an uppity sire.”

Tilting his helm, Cliffjumper laughed caustically before growling, “You talking about my sire? Just how badly d’you need that back brace you have?”

Brawn’s plating flared. “How badly do you need that crutch?” he retorted, only to jump and break the staring contest as something hit said brace from behind. Cliff smirked—until something else glanced off his audial with a dull clunk. Upon examining the fallen object, he saw it was a small can of Old Fortran.

“Shut up unless you want to go back to the hospital in pieces,” Gears advised sternly. “ _You’re_ the outsider and frankly we aren’t gonna side with the one who got slagged up last night.”

“Who says I’d need any help in a fight?” Cliffjumper muttered, lowering himself down where he was and opening the can to refuel.

“I do,” Windcharger huffed. “Since I was the one who sided with you when you needed it.”

Setting the can back down, Cliffjumper opened his mouth to give the slagger a piece of his mind, but someone knocked at the door and Huffer warned, “Save it,” before letting the door open.

“Hello, sir, I’m looking for my creation,” Skydive hailed, hasty by his standards. “I was sent a message with this address, saying he was here and he was hurt—”

“Sire,” Cliff called, regretting that he had sat down as he now struggled to right himself. Windcharger was the one who bent down and hauled him upright and as he fumbled with his crutch, Cliffjumper wasn’t in a prime position to shrug away. Skydive spared him the walk, however, deftly skirting past Huffer and approaching. Though Skydive’s optics barely moved, Cliff knew he was pinpointing each dent and scrape, even if they were minor.

 **::Wiyn cyloy…::** he murmured after several kliks, moving as though to hug him and then deciding against it, tapping their chamfrons lightly together instead. “Who did this to you?”

“I’m just fine, Sire; this is nothing,” Cliffjumper mustered, but Skydive cut him off with a stern squeeze of the arms.

“That’s not what I asked.” When Cliffjumper shrugged reclusively, his sire sighed lightly. “If it was about your debts, I bring what could be considered welcome news: I found Hypervolt.”

“Wh-What?” Cliff sputtered, spark-pulse skyrocketing. “Where, when and how?!”

“As you know, each bot’s credits hold a specific signature,” Skydive reminded him. “Hypervolt made the mistake of taking credits that were _mine_. With the help of the depository, I was able to track where my signature was being used. He’s in Solus. He’s been living what he thinks to be a profitable life, though he has tastes beyond what he can afford. He’ll have spent it all soon enough, so we need to request his arrest as soon as—”

“Sire, I’ll take care of that,” Cliffjumper interrupted. Skydive gave him a skeptical look, which Cliff returned by opening his hand to let his crutch ring against the floor. “I’m fine,” he insisted again. “I’ll be done with it by tonight. You explore Nexus or something.”

“…Very well; I’ll ping you the address,” Skydive relented after a pause. He did hug him then and Cliffjumper kept tight control over his vents so he wouldn’t give any indication of his pain. “It’s good to see you safe with friends, Cliffjumper.” As he stepped back, overlooking Cliffjumper’s astonishment, Skydive seized Brawn’s hand to shake. “I’m in your debt. He’s my only creation and knowing he has loyal friends to stand by him means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Brawn managed just as Skydive pulled him closer, muttering something Cliffjumper couldn’t catch. Whatever it was made Brawn’s optics widen and then narrow. “Sure,” he said curtly in reply. “’Course we would—I mean, _will_.”

Skydive smiled thinly and then thanked them all again, taking his leave. “What’d he say?” Cliff demanded warily as soon as the door closed behind him. Brawn radiated thorough frustration and Cliffjumper didn’t like the look of it.

“Guess you’re not going to Solus alone,” the pace-leader sighed. “He doesn’t trust your condition. Not like I do either. As a ‘loyal friend’, I’m being dragged into standing by you.”

“No!” Cliffjumper burst out angrily. “I don’t want you there!”

“Too bad. Your sire doesn’t want you doing anything stupid that’ll stress your injuries,” Windcharger argued. “So—since you might not have the strength you need for whatever you want to do to this Hypervolt—I’m going too.”

Cliffjumper found that he’d forgotten how to speak; instead he stared at them in righteous rage as they readied themselves, Huffer fretting and fussing and demanding they be careful, Gears seeming entirely disinterested in the bustle as he continued organizing their fuel, though Cliffjumper had a feeling he was paying close attention to what was happening.

So it was that the two mechs he detested the most out of their pace were flanking him as he limped onto an airway pod. He found the driver to be a young **verriese**. It seemed to put Windcharger at ease—a Bulk wasn’t as likely to attack him as other Culumexians—and Brawn promptly made a noise of recognition.

“Hey, Gauge,” he greeted. “You probably don’t remember me from a few vorns back, coming on with two of my friends, but tell me, what route are we taking to reach Solus?”

“We’re in a bit of a hurry,” Cliffjumper put in meaningfully.

“Most bots are,” Gauge agreed dryly before studying his charting and declaring, “The fastest route to Solus is to cut through Alchemist.”

In sync the three mechs stiffened, but after a solid minute of silence Cliffjumper forced out grudgingly, “Fine. That’s…fine. How many stops do we have on the way?”

“If I include the final stop in Solus, we have four.”

If it meant reaching Hypervolt quickly, he could survive three stops in Alchemist, Cliffjumper decided, taking a few more painkillers as he stretched out his bad leg and hugged his wounded arm close to his chest. As much as he hated to admit it, he was in poor shape. He would just rest during the drive and try to ignore anyone they picked up along the way. Surely the residents of Alchemist weren’t as bizarre as they were said to be and Cliffjumper’s glass gas wasn’t unique enough for NET to get interested. Windcharger’s unease, however, was telling.

“Brawn, I want to help make something right here,” he was hissing now, “but Alchemist? Do we have to risk that?” A jolt signaled the pod coming online and Brawn pursed his lips, slumping back in his seat and folding his arms.

“Guess we don’t have a choice.”

From there Cliffjumper was alone with his thoughts and his tension. Whatever he had imagined as his journey to find Hypervolt, it wasn’t this. He had imagined himself handling Hypervolt without tagalongs. Brawn and Windcharger just made it all the harder to choose what he was going to do when he and Hypervolt finally did come face to face.

His sire had called these mechs his _friends_. He had no idea what a friend was supposed to look like, since the only mech he called a “friend” had double-crossed him. _A friend isn’t supposed to betray you,_ Cliffjumper decided. _A friend’s someone you can trust not to let you down, and I definitely don’t trust_ these _mechs._ But at the same time, they hadn’t let him down…

Cliffjumper was so busy trying to puzzle everything out that he hadn’t noticed they were already within Alchemist borders until the driver, Gauge, was calling to Brawn in a warning tone. “Hey, Green? Get to the back—now.” Before he’d even finished, Brawn was rising to his feet.

“Charger, Cliff, move!” he commanded with a mix of authority and urgency that made Cliffjumper take him seriously, staggering painfully toward the back as the doors to the pod opened and several Alchemist residents piled on. Windcharger fell low in his seat and Cliffjumper echoed him, watching the new passengers closely.

His assumption—his _hope_ —was wrong, he realized. They _were_ just as bizarre as everyone said. A mech with his face hidden in his hands was currently being pushed further down the aisle by another, who occasionally let out a random burst of laughter. A femme nearby was squealing as she vaulted over seats instead of waiting behind them, a huge smile lighting her face.

Cliffjumper glanced at his two companions as the femme came gradually closer. Windcharger had hunched far into himself in an effort not to be seen and Brawn, strangely, was staring at the femme as though her behavior was something he was familiar with. His face was unreadable, but his optics were dim. Cliffjumper reached over Windcharger’s hunched form and tapped him questioningly. Brawn blinked, sent him a glower and then turned toward the window.

“This isn’t a safe way to travel! P-Please, can’t we walk?” a reedy voice cried out. Cliffjumper could see a mech trying to backpedal toward the doors. Two larger mechs with him, clearly his escorts, continued nudging him along, firmly telling him he was getting worked up over nothing.

“It’s not nothing!” he insisted, visor flashing in pale, fearful colors. “The T-Tangle of Sectors proves it! I don’t want to—to—What if—” When the first mech to board let out a wail, the skittish one stopped entirely, trembling. The other member of the duo cackled madly at him and his finials flattening against his helm. The larger of his escorts rolled his optics and steered him into a seat, fastening the safety restraint tighter than was likely comfortable. The NET patient started hyperventilating as the pod resumed its journey and Cliffjumper leaned back in his seat.

“Now that’s a fragged-up mech,” he commented. “Fragged enough to be totally paranoid.”

“And _you_ aren’t?” Brawn snapped back. Cliffjumper couldn’t find an answer to that, so he swallowed any other remarks as the pod made another stop and more NET bots boarded. On the third stop, all of them began filing off, clearly not intending—or allowed—to make the full trip to Solus. The last mech, who had won the nickname of Jitters far faster than Huffer had, was now gripping his safety restraint as though it were a lifeline while his escorts pried at him.

“It’s a short walk to the tower from here,” one escort pleaded. “It’s only a mile or two and—and Slinger will be there to greet you! He’s a Vigil, like you, who’s always at the desk, remember?”

“Slinger?!” Jitters quailed. “I can’t trust him! He—he was starting to wake up and get angry; Residue and Venture, they’ve put him back into treatment! He’s going through it all again; I can’t trust him!” The other chaperon glanced at Gauge, who was ignoring the scene in favor of counting the credits he’d earned, and then shoved a can of something into Jitters’ hands.

“Drink that,” he ordered. Jitters flinched at his tone and obeyed, stilling within a few kliks. Cliffjumper watched in disbelief as he compliantly untangled the seatbelt and stood, moving toward the doors. As soon as the two escorts were on the steps leading out, however, Gauge flipped a switch. The NET bot recoiled as the doors slammed closed and then scrambled back down the aisle, ducking as his attendants hollered shocked curses and banged on the windows closest to him until the pod blasted from the checkpoint, leaving them behind.

“What the frag just—?” Cliffjumper stammered.

“You, get back there with them and keep low! I’ll drop you at Solus,” Gauge ordered Jitters, who nodded vigorously and tucked himself into a seat just in front of them. Cliffjumper leaned to one side to stare at him and the visor reflected his expression of astonishment back at him.

“Hello,” Jitters breathed. “Are you…are you escaping too?” Peering over the back of the seat, he contracted his vents in a strangled gasp and mewled at Brawn, “You! You visited Gears sometimes and then he disappeared!”

“He’s fine,” Brawn assured him hastily. “He’s balanced. He’s my pace-mate.” Pausing, he admitted, “I remember you ran when you saw me.”

With a stifled whimper, the NET bot ducked out of sight again. Brawn set his mouth in a thin line, returning his optics to the window. Cliffjumper, meanwhile, swallowed hard. If he’d thought it should’ve been a stretch for the pace to accept _his_ temperament, if he’d thought it was a stretch for them to accept Windcharger’s, he clearly wasn’t seeing the whole picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::Wiyn cyloy…:: - "My mechling…" 
> 
> Perhaps Typhoon's great escape was a bit divergent from the story, but not only did I need filler for this chapter, I needed Cliffjumper to see a different side of Brawn, where he hadn't "toughened up" but had simply _accepted_.
> 
> Gauge, Typhoon, Slinger, etc. (c) Im_The_Doctor/Bofur1


	19. Chapter 19

_Something will go horribly wrong, I know it. I can feel it in my databank!_ Huffer agonized, not for the first or last time since Brawn, Windcharger, and Cliffjumper had left. Why did Cliffjumper’s sire have to coerce them into going? Why hadn’t Huffer been fast enough to offer his services too? If only he’d gone with them, they might stand a chance against whatever terrible happenstance was going to be brought upon them.

 _Oh, come on,_ he chided himself, ashamed by this train of thought _. It’s Brawn and Windcharger! They don’t need me. They can handle themselves. Well, Brawn can. Windcharger…_

Why in the universe couldn’t he bring himself to trust him? He was their **trilitare**. Huffer himself had given his blessing for Brawn’s suggestion that he join their ranks, on the basis that Windcharger had a good spark and Huffer owed him a debt for saving his life. All of those things were still true but it was getting harder to remember it.

Perhaps a part of it was Windcharger’s recent activity; if it weren’t for the attack on him in the market, they never would have hoped to thank Cliffjumper for intervening, which never would have led to their isolation, which never would have led to his coming to their home, etcetera, etcetera. He would have remained their anonymous grocer and everything would be simple.

 _Except it_ hasn’t _been simple, not since Windcharger brought the Archive down,_ he reminded himself, sighing deeply and shaking his helm. Did that make everything that had happened Windcharger’s fault? It must to a degree and Huffer wasn’t sure he could forgive Charger for that. Had that been his real motivation for letting Brawn invite him, trying to puzzle out whether or not he could forgive his involvement?

Shuttering his optics, Huffer simply _vented_ for a minute or two. He just had to remind himself that this pace was not a normal one and never had been. This pace was made up of a would-be Unraveler, a trauma victim, a NET patient, and a killer. They were outcasts in every sense of the word and as such they accepted everything that came with it, even if that was ghastly misfortune in most everything they did.

If he knew about Huffer’s current thoughts, Brawn would tell him they were going to be just fine, as he had in the past. Until the next time their lives were put in danger, he would do his best to believe him, but he would keep the comm. link open just in case. He wasn’t going to be caught unawares the way Cliffjumper’s sire was when receiving bad news.

“Moping again?” Gears snorted as he entered the room, finishing off a box of cryofrozen rust-sticks. “It’s not gonna help anything.”

“Do you think they’ve reached Solus safely?” Huffer demanded anxiously. Gears paused for a solid seven kliks before shrugging off the question.

“Sure, they have.”

Huffer hadn’t heard Gears use a nonchalant tone like that in quite a while. He pressed a bit more. “Are you sure? Anything could happen!”

Oddly enough, Gears didn’t antagonize him for this idea; in fact he didn’t say anything in reply. Optics narrowing, spark-pulse picking up, Huffer rose, folding his arms as Brawn so often did when he wanted an honest answer—by any means necessary. Gears looked him up and down, still unspeaking, but he wasn’t radiating skepticism as was a constant with him.

“Gears…” Huffer began, wishing he didn’t sound so anxious; it was betraying his stance. “Do you think we should’ve gone with them?” Gears still said nothing and Huffer thought back, trying to recall how the frag Brawn had convinced him to stay. Whatever the reasons were, he shouldn’t have accepted them. He should’ve insisted on going even if they didn’t need him. _He_ needed _them_.

“Y’know,” he suggested uncertainly, “we—we could go after them, try to catch up in Solus and make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“Oh, frag, no,” Gears retorted, just a klik too hastily. “I’d much rather stay here and trust me, you do too.”

That meant something, Huffer discerned. “Why? What do you know?” Gears blinked, pressed his mouth into a thin line and pivoted back toward the kitchen, but Huffer caught his arm before he could go. “What do you know?” he repeated.

Glaring, Gears tried twisting his arm and then prying at Huffer’s fingers, both to no avail. “’Jumper was in a hurry, that’s all,” he snapped elusively.

“So?” Huffer shook his arm slightly. “What does that have to do with—?”

“Nothing! Just forget I mentioned it!”

“No! Tell me what—”

“Well, when a mech’s in a hurry to get to Solus, he goes through Alchemist!” Gears must have noticed Huffer’s frame locking up, as he took the opportunity to wrench away, throwing up his hands.

“But Windcharger is a _target!_ ” Huffer near-screeched, causing Gears to fall back a step. “He’s—he’s—”

“But it’s Windcharger and _Brawn_ ,” Gears tried to backpedal. “They’re gonna be fine. If something happens, the NET bots will be the ones who need to worry. Even without Brawn, Windcharger’s smart enough to take care of himself! You know that!”

“B-But what if they get in a firefight?!” Huffer wailed. “Windcharger might kill someone and then—”

Gears seemed determined not to let him finish his sentences, as he latched onto Huffer’s shoulders, pulling their faces close together. “Is that what you think?” he spat. “That Charger would— _will_ just kill bots at random?! You don’t know the first thing about killing!”

“And you do?” Huffer parried before he’d really thought about it, increasingly nervous as Gears stiffened and his EM field brewed stormy static between them.

“Sure as _slag_ , I do!” he barked, releasing him with a disgusted string of Culumexian. **::** **Iuow bremeror ierh quiarne vure** **cyig’kote’s fyarm unuceim!::**

Regaining his balance, Huffer couldn’t find anything to say in response to that. Somehow it had completely fled his processor—or he had blocked it out, but Gears’ words could bring everything rushing back.

Gears hadn’t moved since releasing him; he simply stood where he was with clenched fists, staring at him accusingly. Huffer’s careless comeback had stung a rather vulnerable nervecircuit. Gears hadn’t just stormed off as he so often did after an argument and the use of their private Tongue only made it clearer.

_You remember who killed our pace-leader’s first One!_

“Gears…” Huffer mustered weakly, holding up a hand placatingly. **::Vergei ieo,** **aicianre.::** I didn’t think.” This admission was mild to the mental berating he was giving himself. How could he have been so careless to forget what Gears had been forced to do for them?

Before Gears could either deny or accept his plea, the comm. unit trilled, letting them know that their incoming data folder was now full. Reluctantly Huffer crept away from Gears to read the databurst, trying to turn his mind to this new subject.

Brawn had gotten a job offer, Huffer discovered, a small spark of hope kindling until he saw the position, which stomped the spark out. It would pay even less than his current job, which made accepting it practically useless. Sighing, he typed up a polite decline in Brawn’s stead and sent it off.

“What was that?” Gears asked grudgingly.

Glancing at him cautiously, Huffer shrugged on impulse. “Nothing important…” Almost before he had finished the sentence, Gears was nudging him aside and scanning the words.

“Oh, the job hunt,” he remarked flatly, hardly raising an eyebrow. Huffer stared at him incredulously.

“You know already?”

“I have my ways,” Gears muttered, opening the next databurst and scanning it quickly, scoffing a few kliks later. “That won’t work either. Brawn’d be glitched to ever accept that.” So saying, he sent a short, blunt decline.

Trying to digest the baffling idea that Gears had found out their secret, Huffer watched him delete databursts left and right with snarky remarks about how ridiculous Brawn was being for having put in an offer in the first fraggin’ place.

“Are you sure that one has no promise?” Huffer ventured when Gears was typing up choice words to a company hoping for Brawn to tend their materials.

“’Course I’m sure. Have you even seen what Brawn does to the materials I bring onsite?” Gears demanded. “He practically demolishes them before they’re even used! Besides, if Brawn knows what’s good for him, we need to screen these. Y’know…for _safety_ and all that.”

Gears definitely knew how to play him, Huffer realized as he seized two oil drums for them to sit on while they worked. If he thought about it for too long, it was a little disconcerting how easily he was swayed into helping Gears with his sifting but, especially for this pace, safety was a virtue.

They worked with minimal conversation for about a breem and then Huffer froze, mouth and optics opening wide. Gears glanced at him questioningly and Huffer wordlessly brought a finger to the screen.

“Primus Almighty,” Gears burst out. “He’s glitched! He applied at the fraggin’ _marketplace!_ ” Noticing the endnote to the databurst, he read aloud, “‘One of my employees has been in and out with personal issues and several injuries. If he can’t resolve them, I’ll let you know.’ Wow, Cliffjumper must know he’s loved!”

At that Huffer couldn’t suppress a laugh, more out of sympathy than humor, but when Gears gave him the astonishment of a genuine grin, he couldn’t help but laugh a bit more.

“Can you imagine Brawn in Cliffjumper’s position?” he questioned, shaking his helm. “He’d _despise_ it!”

“Ohh, on the contrary, I can see it just fine,” Gears countered, deepening his voice several notches in a mangled imitation of their leader. “‘Get your stupid, slaggin’ fuel, you fraggers! I’m in this for the credits and that’s it, so buy something or I’ll throw it at you! I don’t care!’”

“That isn’t nice! And didn’t you hear what Brawn said to Cliff about watching the language?” Huffer scolded without any ire.

“Hey, Cliff and Brawn aren’t here, so I can get away with it,” Gears shrugged it off good-naturedly. “So don’t tell ’em.”

“I think it’ll be the last thing on their minds once they gets back,” Huffer pointed out. “Cliff will have a story or two to tell.” As Gears nodded agreeably, Huffer realized two things: not only were they getting along, they were calling their ill-mannered, cantankerous grocer _Cliff_. When had that happened?


	20. Chapter 20

“Where are you going, Jitters?” Cliffjumper asked as the NET bot scrambled off the airway pod with them at the station.

“My name is Typhoon,” Jitters replied nervously, trembling a little as he scanned his surroundings and admitted, “The truth is I—I don’t know.”

While Cliffjumper’s main mission here was Hypervolt, he couldn’t help being a bit distracted at the prospect of a NET mech running aimlessly rampant around Solus, especially one with this kind of temperament. “Okay, well, what d’you think you need? Think fast; my leg hurts,” he urged impatiently, shifting more weight onto his crutch.

Grimacing, Typhoon considered for a klik or two before mustering, “Well, a ship…?”

“Sounds about right,” Cliff approved. “Ask around for Skydive—and at least _try_ to assert yourself, cos no one’s going to listen to a mech who’s shaking like a cracked lilleth—and tell him that Cliffjumper sent you.”

“Cliffjumper,” Typhoon repeated, nodding vigorously before looking fleetingly at Windcharger and then Brawn. “T-Take good care of Gears, would you please? He was very nice to me—one of the only mechs who was.” With that he scurried away, melding into the crowds disembarking from the other pods. Cliffjumper watched him disappear, shaking his helm, and then glanced pointedly in Brawn’s direction.

“So it’s you, _your_ Jitters, this freak you’ve got here, and Gears, who I’m just now finding out is a NET patient?” he commented skeptically. “I have no idea how that works.”

“Why d’you even _care_ to know?” Brawn growled. “Just walk.”

That Cliffjumper did, though he wasn’t sure where exactly his chosen path was going to take them. Everywhere one turned, there was something to catch the optic. In each direction a mech could see, there were screens that showed off looped advertisements of all ranges, anything from nanite treatments to professional buffing to holovid entertainment. Most of the buildings were several stories high, but each was very different. One tapered off into a precarious spire, while another adjacent hugged its levels in a dizzying spiral balcony; another pair formed a dome and an archway overtop, while nearby there was one which had its wings stacked atop one another like massive stairs. All were comprised of platinum and gold, rhodium and silver, the most expensive of metals.

Cliffjumper wasn’t as awed by it all as some might think; Epistemus was much like it, just on a smaller scale, with fewer precious metals and fewer stories. He couldn’t help being curious what his companions would think though. Windcharger, to his surprise, seemed unfazed by the grandeur, but Brawn’s reaction was just what Cliff had suspected it would be; he wasn’t gawking, per se, but he clearly hadn’t broadened his processors enough on the way here. When he tore his optics away from it, he seemed to notice Windcharger’s lack of reaction, as Cliffjumper had.

“How could you ever stand this?” he asked in a subdued tone Cliffjumper hadn’t heard from him before, but he was more bewildered by the words themselves.

“What?” he tried to ask, but Windcharger cut him off with a sheepish shrug, admitting, “Oh, I haven’t been home in ages, but everything’s just as I remember. It hasn’t changed at all since I grew up!”

Cliff stumbled on what he was sure had been an unforeseen cleft in the boardwalk, narrowly catching himself as he tried to digest this new piece of information. Windcharger was a _Solus_ mech? _I’ll be fragged,_ he realized in astonishment. _According to our customs, this—this piece of scrap_ outranks _me!_ That insight led to another: he had been slinging putdowns at Windcharger left and right, but the slagger’s background kept him completely self-righteous through it all because he _knew_ he outranked him. The first thing he felt was annoyance with this reality, which fortunately buried how unnerved he was by it.

The address Skydive had given him led to one of the wider buildings, lined with several of the advertising screens. It was a sports venue, Cliffjumper discerned, glowering. He should have known Hypervolt wouldn’t stay away from the sports for long.

“Excuse me, you three,” a mech maneuvered between them and the entryway. “Do you have a pass or some other kind of credentials?”

“How ’bout you let us in just cos we _want_ to get in?” Brawn muttered, earning a sharp look. Cliffjumper waved a hand to recapture the larger mech’s attention and then put the same hand on his arm as though to placate him.

“My sire is Skydive, previous Council representative of Epistemus. Now he lives here,” he explained, doing his best to sound charming. “Is that enough?”

“How am I to know you are…” Before he could even finish his question, the guard was being treated to a holopic Cliffjumper kept in his subspace of himself with his creators. Grudgingly the mech nodded, stepping aside for their entry.

“Good afternoon, gentlemechs,” the femme at the front desk greeted with a smile before noticing the guard glaring at Brawn and adding hesitantly, “and others. What can I do for you?”

Bristling, Brawn began hotly, “We’re looking—”

“—around,” Cliffjumper interjected, elbowing Windcharger and forcing a smile at him. “This one here and my sire recommended this place to me. Just looking.” Windcharger gave him a sidelong glance and Cliffjumper continued smiling until he followed suit, taking on the posture befitting his station with startling ease.

“Yes, that’s right,” he agreed, adopting the slightest of accents. “I used to come here a lot with my sire, whenever we weren’t frequenting the Root Cube Club.” The clerk’s Solus posture began to border that of a ramrod and Windcharger tilted his head. “Quite the place.”

“Indeed, sir,” she agreed meekly. “Please, sir, let me know if you need anything. Sir. Thank you for coming.”

Once they made their way out of her audial range, Windcharger growled out in a pedal tone, “Cliffjumper? _Never_ make me do that again.”

Cliffjumper shrugged his good shoulder, busy scanning the bots roving the establishment. “Hey, if you’re a denizen, you’re an asset. You came along to ‘help’, right?” Unable to resist making another jab, he added innocently, “Root Cube Club, huh? Sounds fancy, even for a sector like this.”

“Don’t push me,” Windcharger warned.

“Or what?” Windcharger didn’t respond, so Cliffjumper returned his attention to what he was doing. After a klik or two he cursed. “None of these bots look familiar. Hypervolt’s not here.”

“Well, we can’t just wander around. It’ll look suspicious. This is a sporting complex, so let’s play some sports,” Brawn suggested. Windcharger nodded, leading them back to the front and gesturing to their left, where a wide cybre-glass wall boxed in a small basketrek court. “On second thought,” Brawn backpedaled uneasily, “I’m gonna sit this one out. The first thing I’d do to that wall is break it.”

“As much as I’d love to beat a Solus mech like you, Windcharger, I’m opting out too,” Cliffjumper admitted. “It wouldn’t be fair if I’m not at my best.” So saying, he settled down next to the ballobot rack.

“I can at least shoot some goals,” Windcharger decided, taking one of the ballobots and rubbing it down, murmuring to it, “Well, look at you! You’re in the best sort of shape, aren’t you? You’ll want to fly fast, I bet. I like a bit of speed too.” He kept that up as he moved toward the goal, proceeding to make several fine shots which Cliffjumper would never admit were impressive.

“Didn’t think a mech like him would care to treat his ballobot like that,” he mumbled.

“Cliffjumper,” Brawn sighed, sitting next to him and folding his arms, “he’s not what you think.” When Cliffjumper scoffed lightly, the pace-leader continued in a hiss, “Fine. You don’t believe me? Believe this: Gears and I were in that fraggin’ Archive when it went down! My pace-mates and I _built_ the streakin’ thing and we were some of the victims. Huffer was on the outside, digging for us. I watched one of my coworkers go gray, so if I can bring the mech responsible into my fraggin’ pace, _you_ never earned the right to judge him from on high. Do you understand?!”

For the first time since they’d met, Brawn had left Cliffjumper completely speechless. There was no way he was lying; why would a mech lie about something like that? Just like before, he went through the cycle of astonishment, annoyance, and unease. If he wasn’t sure before, he was now: when it came to a rivalry with this pace, he had no idea what he was doing. Instead of trying to search for a comeback, he watched the group of mechs that had just entered the complex, who were approaching the basketrek courts.

“You have good form,” one of them called to Windcharger, who pivoted and tipped a brief salute before tossing the ballobot over his shoulder and landing another goal. “Are you thinking of staying long enough for a game?”

“It would be a pleasure to play with you,” another added, his vocals catching Cliffjumper’s attention. As soon as he saw the distinctive blue and gold paintjob, he lurched onto his feet, nearly losing his balance as his knee buckled, but Brawn slapped his back hard enough that he regained his footing.

“What’re you doing?”

“It’s him,” Cliffjumper breathed, gripping his crutch so tightly that his knuckles squeaked, internals churning as he repeated menacingly, “That’s _him_.”

At this Brawn rose, gesticulating wildly until he caught Windcharger’s attention. Somehow he managed to get the message across, as Windcharger’s smile changed and he shook his helm.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have other plans,” he informed them, moving to put his ballobot on the rack. Hypervolt pursued.

“Must you? I recently moved here and I haven’t found an opponent quite like you yet…” Hypervolt trailed off as he spotted the two mechs standing by the rack Windcharger was approaching. His optics met Cliff’s and held and he took a step back toward his throng.

“Oh, Hypervolt!” Cliffjumper called out, making his way toward him with a savage grin. “I haven’t seen you in a while! How are you?” The words burned his mouth, but Hypervolt had the gall to smile back while he thought he was safe with his clique. Time to change that. “Are you Hype’s friends?” he asked them, receiving nods and waves. “Isn’t that nice. Has he stolen from you yet?” They chuckled, some in confusion and some clearly thinking he meant on the basketrek courts, so he stressed further, “Any of you missing a deposit you’re expecting?”

At that the laughter dissipated. “Rerun,” one of them nudged the mech next to him, “didn’t you say that just happened to you?”

“Yes, I’ve been expecting a bonus at work which hasn’t come yet,” the other replied, bewildered.

“You should probably check with your manager,” Hypervolt advised nonchalantly, earning a thoughtful nod. “I’ll be right back, fellows; I want to test the quality of that cygar I just bought.” With that he went for the door, but Cliffjumper interjected.

“Actually, can you show me the washroom here, Hype? You know how long it’s been since I had hot oil in my wash-racks,” he reminded him sweetly as he passed. At first Hypervolt didn’t turn, but Cliffjumper thought he saw Windcharger swipe a hand in his peripheral vision and Hypervolt jerked suddenly toward the hallway nearby. Hypervolt spun around, searching for whatever had pushed him, but Brawn was already ushering him the rest of the way.

Once the washroom door closed behind them, Hypervolt pivoted to face them with his signature disarming smile. “Well, Cliffjumper, I didn’t expect you to make the journey on my account,” he ventured. “Or are you visiting your creators? They’re—”

“Don’t say a fraggin’ word about them,” Cliff snarled.

“Alright, listen,” Hypervolt sighed, shifting his weight back and forth. “I know our comm. call ended on poor terms, but there’s really no reason to get so hot.” Pausing, he looked him up and down, commenting, “You don’t look so hot anyway.”

Quivering in fury, Cliffjumper hissed through his teeth, “I _trusted_ you. I thought we were friends.”

“Oh, don’t,” Hypervolt interrupted patronizingly. “Why do you think I was always telling you to _make_ friends? We were roommates, Cliffjumper, and I got you a job. That’s all. Besides, you seem to have made two new friends already.” Addressing Brawn and Windcharger, he added, “There’s really no reason for you to be tangled up in whatever Cliffjumper wants to happen here.”

“Oh, there is,” Windcharger disagreed, studying him with clear distaste. “Do you even know the history of this sector, why it’s named Solus? Solus Prime was brilliant, inventive, but selective about whom she spent her time with. Clearly this sector and Cliffjumper here needed to be _more_ selective; I can tell you’re going to give some Solus mechs a bad name.”

Hypervolt huffed, optics flicking away from them, probably in hopes of finding an escape route, but Brawn was leaning against the doorframe and foiled those expectations. Finally he returned his gaze to the mech he had betrayed and smiled slightly. “So what are you going to do, Cliff? Arrest me as a citizen? Whatever I did to you was in Epistemus; Solus mechs don’t care about what goes on in the other sectors.”

“You’re right,” Cliffjumper agreed, forcing a bitter smile in return. “But they definitely care when the victim is the former _Council representative_ of Epistemus, who now lives in Solus. You stole from the wrong mech. So yeah, I could arrest you as a citizen, but I’m more of a mind to beat the slag out of you. Let’s start with that!”

At that, any smooth attempt at good will vanished and Hypervolt recoiled, snapping, “Well, if you want to be that way—”

Cliffjumper didn’t let him finish, readjusting his hold on his crutch and threw it like a lance, missing so narrowly that he could hear the swish of the thin air. As Hypervolt ducked into one of the stalls, Cliff pursued, fully intending to pull his quarry out by force, but just as he was swinging with his good arm, Hypervolt was spinning around him, landing a glancing but painful blow to the shoulder that had been shot.

Yelping, the wounded mech pitched forward, catching himself against the back wall. He spun around as soon as he could force himself to move, just as Hypervolt was making a lunge for the lights, clearly intending to put them in darkness. Windcharger again intervened, tapping him with his magnetism so he staggered back, leaving him open for Cliffjumper to land on his back and get an arm around his throat.

“You’re gonna pay, you nasty little fragger!” he barked, letting Hype scrabble at his arm to no avail, crushing his throat tighter and tighter underneath it. “You think you can double-cross me, try to take everything from me, and expect me to _understand?!_ ” Without his crutch, his leg was wavering, so he lowered himself to the floor near the supply of wash oils, keeping a firm stranglehold on the traitor. “Give me a good reason that I don’t slag you worse than _I’ve_ been slagged cos of a _debt!_ ”

Hypervolt coughed and flailed, vents heaving, and Cliffjumper loosened his hold just enough for him to speak. It wasn’t what his former friend did, however—instead he lunged sideways, snatching an open bottle of polish and splashing his captor’s optics with it. Hollering, Cliffjumper swept futilely at his face and then clutched his shoulder as it was treated to another blow. A well-aimed kick to his midsection stunned him for a few kliks and as soon as he was able, he blinked hard to see a blurry Hypervolt baring his teeth at him and pointing something at Windcharger.

“My reason is that I’m holding a blaster,” he shot back triumphantly. “Y’know, I had a feeling you would be like this if you ever found me, so I took precautions.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Windcharger claimed coldly.

“No, you made one,” Hypervolt argued. “Clearly you didn’t think before you came here, Cliffjumper, or you would have come without any liabilities! Now—now I have to make sure you don’t try anything.”

“You think you can do it?” Windcharger questioned in a low voice, hands twitching testily at his sides. “I suggest you put down that toy of yours; you don’t have any notion of what you’re dealing with.”

For a few more kliks, Hypervolt stayed where he was, just long enough for Brawn to bring Cliffjumper’s crutch down on his back with astonishing force. As Hype crumpled, Windcharger used his magnetism to wrench the blaster out of his grasp, but Cliffjumper lunged and snatched it out of the air, turning it on its owner. Windcharger gripped his shoulder cautioningly but he didn’t react to it, taken up with centering the barrel between Hype’s optics.

Swallowing hard, Hypervolt stayed where he was on the floor. “I guess this is what you think is fair?” he asked softly.

“No. No, you don’t get _fair_. We’re way past fair,” Cliffjumper spat. “Justice isn’t always fair and for you, it definitely won’t be.”

“Cliff,” Brawn spoke up sharply, “justice isn’t always blasting someone in the face either.”

“It is here,” Cliffjumper replied seamlessly, still meeting Hype’s optics steadily. Windcharger’s grip on his shoulder tightened enough that he turned his helm slightly, snapping, “ _What?!_ ”

Windcharger paused for a nanoklik before answering bluntly. “I was just going to ask if you plan on becoming me.”

Outwardly Cliffjumper didn’t react, but he was certain he felt his spark hit the floor at the words. Was he ready for that? Could he bring himself to become everything he had said Windcharger was: a killer, a psychopath, a murderer? Following Charger’s words, there was a solid minute where the only sound was that of their vents cycling the air. Then Cliffjumper huffed, flipped the blaster around in his hand and smashed the hilt against Hypervolt’s chamfron. Once he was sure he was out cold, he spat at him and dropped the blaster, taking his crutch from Brawn.

“This fragger’s not worth it,” he muttered, keeping a growl in his tone to hide how he was reeling. He had walked a line he hadn’t thought he’d made; he had thought taking a mech’s life was something he’d never even _approach_. It was something for scum, something completely out of the question, until it finally came down to it. Had he really been willing to go through with it? He wasn’t feeling any sense of gratification; instead he felt rather dizzy, achy. He took a few painkillers and then left the complex, unsure of where exactly he was going. He could sense Windcharger and Brawn having some kind of silent conversation behind him, until Brawn abruptly spoke aloud.

“Y’know, it could be turned around.”

“What could?” Windcharger prompted.

“What you said about Solus Prime. You said she should’ve been more selective, but maybe she should’ve been more _inclusive_. If she had been, one of the others might have seen The Fallen coming, maybe prevented what he did to her.”

“I have to go,” Cliffjumper cut in hastily. The pair were close enough that he could sense their confusion, so he turned halfway in their direction, announcing, “I got what I wanted. Get out of here.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Windcharger began, holding up his hands, but Cliffjumper recoiled from him, plating flaring as though he were a cornered mechanimal. It was exactly how he felt. He had to take a hint from Solus and be selective; now that their business was done, these mechs would turn on him just like Hype had because he had been stupid enough to include them in it.

“You served your purpose!” he barked. “You minded me, didn’t you?! There’s no reason for you to hound me anymore! You’re—you’re—you’re a waste of time now!” He backed up a few more steps, internals churning with sudden panic. “Get off my back!”

Doubling his fists, Brawn began angrily, “We helped you—”

“And now you’re useless!” Cliffjumper finished for him, regretting it as soon as he said it, as soon as he registered the disbelief and hurt that flashed across their faces. It was a low blow, fitted to Nexus mechs who could be considered substandard. He took a few more steps back, enough that he was out of Brawn’s immediate reach. The pace-leader didn’t move, but his entire demeanor stormed over.

“We _helped_ you,” he repeated scathingly.

“And now there’s no reason to,” Cliffjumper reminded him. “So _leave_.” He turned his back before they could, making up his mind about his destination. He needed his carrier; hopefully she would be able to soothe whatever was making him feel so sick. He refused to believe it was guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *is upset* That ending was painful for me to write, but it's what comes from a mech who's gotten paranoid...


	21. Chapter 21

 

* * *

  **Five Diuns Later**

* * *

 

These orns, Gears was unsure about some things—like Brawn’s job hunt, which still hadn’t offered up any success; Windcharger’s safety, even if they were taking him out at night; Huffer’s paranoia, which had settled down only to become pessimism of what danger might come; even his own state bothered him. What he’d done to Cardsharp hadn’t left him and neither had his sickness about it. Gears didn’t intend to tell his pace about the times he leapt up at night and rushed to the washroom, pouring oil over his face in a futile attempt to scrub away the frantic adrenaline of his nightmares.

What Gears _was_ sure of, however, was that he didn’t like his uncertainty and he didn’t like how that grocer was contributing. Each time one of them came home from the marketplace, Brawn was seething or Huffer was complaining. Whenever Gears looked over, Windcharger wouldn’t look back at him, too busy shaking his helm in frustration.

Five diuns ago, Gears and Huffer had gotten a comm. call with a Solus signature. Since their leader and **trilitare** were in Solus, they couldn’t take the chance of letting the call drop in case it was important. Upon answering, they’d found the caller was Windcharger.

“Where are you?” Huffer ventured apprehensively.

“Standing on a slaggin’ corkscrew balcony, that’s where! You wanna know why? To get a full view of this stupidly crowded sector cos I have no fraggin’ idea where I am! Apparently Solus is _not_ just as I remember,” Windcharger exclaimed irately. “Brawn’s on the ground level, trying to get anyone to listen to him long enough to give directions back to the airway station. Cliffjumper dumped us in the middle of the sector with no credits to get a trip back to you! Ugh, now I’m remembering why I left this place!”

“Well, didn’t you use the airway station to leave the first time, with the carnival?” Gears demanded. “You don’t know the way?”

“I used other avenues,” Windcharger huffed, hesitating for a nanoklik before admitting, “Cin and Cardsharp made other arrangements for me.” There was another minute of silence before he sighed. “Alright, it looks like Brawn cornered a mech who can give us directions. In the meantime, Gears, can you dip into some of the credits Rusty and Polevault gave us and send them our way? I have a hunch that we’re going to need them.”

Their pace had troubles simmering beneath the surface, just as he had, but instead of helping them as they had him, Cliffjumper made theirs worse for no reason that they could see. After that great vexation, it was made quite a bit harder for them to visit the marketplace without trying to confront Cliffjumper on why he had done that.

“He acts like he doesn’t even know me,” Brawn grumbled to Huffer on one such occasion as they unloaded the stores Brawn had just bought. Gears had leaned against the corner of the hallway wall, nonchalantly listening in.

“If what you told us about his confrontation with Hypervolt is true, he probably just doesn’t want to remember what he almost did,” Huffer pointed out. “He nearly killed the mech and you talked him down.”

“But he told us he got what he wanted,” Brawn protested incredulously. “So why’s he treating us like we _encouraged_ him to blast Hype away? We didn’t! He said we served our purpose just as we were asked to and now he’s making us out to be…what, villains? He’s treating us like I bet he would treat a **verriese**! The point is that his funk is getting on my last nervecircuit, **unuceim**! I don’t care if he’s glitched; I care that he’s taking it out on us when we did him a favor.”

While Gears couldn’t help but be a little satisfied with his pace-mates’ exasperation, since it spared him witnessing all of their agonizing ecstasy, their exasperation was kin to his. It formed a sense of camaraderie in him, understanding…dare Gears believe it, very far down in his spark he might even be feeling _sympathy_ for his mates’ plight. He didn’t like that in the least. In order to stop feeling this unnerving sensation, he had to solve the problem that was generating it. That would mean taking matters into his own hands.

 _Emotions are infuriating,_ Gears decided sullenly, not for the first or last time as he cut into Brawn and Huffer’s current conversation over who would go treat with the red fiend for their quintun’s fuel.

“I’m going,” he announced, making it clear there would be no argument. Even so, they pivoted as one to stare at him in surprise and he rolled his optics. “What? I can spend my time how I want. Besides, you’ve been getting the wrong kind of optical lubricant so it’s about time I fix your mistake! Scrap, it seems like I’m the only one who cares about making these things right!” He wasn’t speaking of the lubricant now, but it’s not like they were supposed to know.

“You _are_ the only one who cares,” Windcharger assured him in amusement. Gears shot him a sarcastic smile and strode for the door as Charger called teasingly after him, “Hey! How many fingers am I holding up?!” Gears gave him a rude gesture in response as he went on his way.

Upon reaching the marketplace, Gears didn’t bother to wander the stalls, making a beeline for the one which housed the source of their problem. He hadn’t seen Cliff since he’d been brought to their house five diuns ago, before the trip to Solus, and Gears decided he looked much improved physically. Their kind was renowned for recovering quickly from injuries, even the ones Cliff had endured. The most prominent aspect was that he still favored his shoulder slightly.

Picking up a random can, Gears shoved it across the counter for Cliff to ring up. The grocer did so, greeting, “Good afternoon, sir, how are—?” By that time he’d looked up and recognized him, stiffening ever so slightly. “…Good afternoon, sir. How are you?” he finished, vocals clipped.

“I’m annoyed,” Gears replied smartly. “Well, my pace-mates are, and I’m annoyed with them being annoyed, so I want to know what you’ve got lodged in your tailpipe.”

Setting the can aside, Cliffjumper shifted testily. “ _Nothing_. I just never expected you and your pace to keep riding me; isn’t that what you wanted, to break ties?”

“No, that’s what _you_ wanted,” Gears pointed out. “You were the one who dumped Brawn and Windcharger in the middle of Solus.”

“So what if I did?”

“They didn’t appreciate it.”

“And why would I fraggin’ care?”

“Because now that you went and did that, you _owe_ us.” Tilting his helm, Gears put on an air of thoughtfulness and remarked, “Actually, you owe us more than that. You owe us your _life_ , Cliffjumper, and whatever you’re doing, it’s not how you repay a debt.”

Just as Gears had known it would, that broke the ice. Leaning across the counter, Cliff hissed, “Debt? You don’t know a thing about _debt!_ ”

“And you don’t know a thing about _me_ ,” Gears snapped back, optics narrowed. “Trust me, I know about debt—mine _and_ yours. We both owe my leader a lot, so I suggest you pay up by losing your attitude glitch.”

“The way you did,” Cliff taunted, “NET patient?”

 _Ohh, you want to go there?_ “Yeah, the way I did,” he agreed acidly, clenching his fists on the countertop. “Cos what does it say when a NET patient is less screwed up than you? It says you should start thinkin’ about where you really belong—think _hard_. If you want to buck up and be better than that, start paying up some of your debts by being who you really are. If you want to be glitched, useless, and very, _very_ alone, Alchemist is that way.” Slapping a credit stick onto the counter, he ordered, “Keep the change. The advice is free.”

Upon returning to the house, Gears glanced at his pace-mates, who were sitting on the floor in the front room with their afternoon fuel. Brawn glanced up.

“What did you do?” he asked warily.

“Well, I didn’t buy anything,” Gears admitted grudgingly, throwing up his hands. “But I either repaired Cliffjumper or I broke him.” Flopping onto the floor in the empty space, Gears snagged the last of the wheel-nuts, munching them as he explained what he and Cliffjumper had discussed. He wasn’t expecting any of them to be proud of him, which was why he was surprised when Brawn slung an arm over his shoulders, chuckling a little.

“You sure know how to sass someone when they need it, Gears,” he praised.

“Your arm is heavy, Brawn; you’re going to strain my neck,” Gears replied uncomfortably, shrugging him off. After a hesitation, he muttered, “Y’think I did the right thing?”

“Yeah. He needed that,” Brawn assured him.

“But what else does he need?” Windcharger queried, earning puzzled looks. “I mean…he can stop being so cold; that’s on him. But he _is_ alone. He doesn’t have to be in Alchemist for that. He got betrayed and now he’s on his own, so I guess I can see _why_ he’s been cold.” He halted for a solid minute before squaring his shoulders a little and concluding, “Like I was when I got out of stasis prison.”

Gears hadn’t seen that coming and clearly neither of the others had either. In a strange, inexplicable sort of way, the parallel was there.

“It reminds me of when I was with Remix’s team,” Huffer admitted awkwardly. “Being bullied. When I joined them, I thought they were my friends and they were doing me a favor but by the time I realized they weren’t, I couldn’t get out.” Not lifting his optics from the floor, he lightly nudged the mech beside him, vocals softer. “Till I met you…”

Gears watched in disbelief as Brawn swallowed, shook his helm slightly and finished, sounding almost baffled, “…when I was _alone_ , after my One betrayed me and my pace Unraveled.”

Fidgeting, Gears watched their optics turn to him. He refused to acknowledge them, finishing the wheel-nuts and crunching the wrapping in his hands to distract himself. When he finally couldn’t stand it anymore, he glowered back at them, growling, “What?”

“When you found out NET wasn’t all you thought it was, you had no one,” Brawn reminded him pointedly. “We took you in.”

“So?” Gears grumped.

“So what are we doing, making that slaggin’ grocer out to be a traitor when he’s the victim?” their leader asked rhetorically, shaking his helm more violently. “Remix, Cardsharp, Incinerator, that’s what they all said about us, that we were the ones who did everything wrong, when we know it’s the other way around. We were the ones who ended up betrayed and alone!”

“But we’re _not_ alone,” Windcharger insisted.

“Cos we’ve all got a pace,” Huffer chimed in.

“And Cliffjumper doesn’t!” Brawn burst out. With those words, his fierce expression changed entirely—ironically, just as Cliffjumper’s had when Gears arrived to confront him. Gears watched him uneasily, trying to see the gears that were turning in his processor.

“Brawn…” Windcharger probed, clearly seeing the same thing that Gears was. “…what are you thinking?”

Blinking a few times, Brawn shifted his gaze to the floor, clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees. “None of us are alone and he is,” he repeated, more to himself than to any of them.

“Brawn?” Gears began loudly, trying to break through to him, “You’re getting _that look_. I’ve seen that look on you twice before—just before you invited me and just after you told me Windcharger would be staying with us.” When Brawn’s expression remained unchanged, Gears sputtered. Though he had just witnessed it, he wasn’t sure he had any idea of how they had reached this point.

“Huffer,” Brawn murmured, glancing at the mech next to him. “Y’know how you wanted a little warning?” Huffer hummed in the affirmative and Brawn sighed, seeming almost rueful. “I’ve got _a_ _feeling_. Duck.”

Huffer hesitated for a few kliks and then echoed his friend’s sigh, nodding pensively. “I had a feeling too.”

Windcharger’s optics widened and Gears leaned forward, trying to protest. “You—you—you can’t be serious! _Cliffjumper?!_ You’ve just spent five diuns faultfinding in the mech and now you want to deal with all of his slag on a regular basis?”

“We all have practice dealing with slag,” Brawn countered calmly. “And it’s just like you said, Gears…”

“Like I said?” Gears echoed, aghast.

“…We’ve got a choice here: we can either break Cliffjumper or we can repair him.” Rising to his feet, Brawn helped Huffer and Windcharger up after him and informed them, “I may be a demolitionist, but this is something I’m gonna do my Prime _best_ to repair.”


	22. Chapter 22

Cliffjumper kept finding his optics drawn to that can he’d set aside, the one Gears had shoved at him as a courtesy so he could give him a piece of his mind. Though it had been a full orn since Gears had confronted him, the words were still clear in his audials. He hadn’t expected anyone in that pace to be so willing to enter an argument with him—not only that, he hadn’t expected anyone in that pace to _win_ an argument with him. Though Cliff would never admit it, Gears had won fair and square. Somehow he doubted Gears would see it that way though.

 _He was trying to put me in my place,_ he mused, consternated. _He had to be! So what the frag was all of that scrap about being alone? Why does he care if I’m alone? He had to be steamed that I knew he was a NET patient, but he seems like the type to throw a punch for that. Why didn’t he? That’s what I expected!_

The only explanation, he decided, was that when it came to Brawn’s group, he had lost his edge. Hopefully while he was giving them the detached treatment, it would return to him and he could come back with his witty sarcasm. Things could go back to how they were—an interesting rivalry.

But why did he care enough about Brawn’s group to keep up a rivalry with them? He’d told them himself that their business was done and they should go their separate ways. He had insulted them and told them to back off and now here he was, expecting—even…hoping?—that they would keep coming so he could prove he hadn’t gone soft.

His choices apparently were to pay up his debt to them—how, he had no idea—or go to Alchemist and be alone, but they weren’t allowed to dictate what he did! That begged another question: why did this suggested ultimatum _bother_ him so much?

“Excuse me,” a mech in front of him recalled his attention.

“What can I do for you?” Cliffjumper asked hastily, trying to pull himself out of his thoughts.

“Oh, I’m just wondering why the rust sticks haven’t been restocked,” the mech admitted, smiling sheepishly. “My pace-leader and my femme are fond of them and I like to keep a supply at hand.”

“Sorry, but there was an acid-storm near the manufacturers’ place and some of their equipment was damaged,” Cliffjumper explained, shrugging apologetically.

Tsking, the mech shook his helm. “Too bad! No estimate of when they’ll come, I suppose?”

“Sorry, no.”

The customer considered, waving a hand. “Well, thanks anyway. Have a good afternoon.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Cliff inquired after him, bewildered. “You’re not going to yell at me?”

“Why would I do that?” the mech asked curiously. “You can’t control the weather, sir! I’ll just come back later. Good afternoon!”

Why did it have to happen this way? Cliffjumper asked himself, finding no answer. Every time he thought this job was the only predictable thing in his life, a customer like that came along and brought up only more questions.

“Lightfoot,” he called wearily to his manager, “I’m going on break. I’ll be at the outdoor seating, alright?” Since he’d returned to work on a crutch five diuns ago, Lightfoot had insisted Cliffjumper tell him where and when he would be going on his own, just as a precaution. _He probably wants to make sure I won’t skip out on work either._

“Alright, Cliffjumper, stay out of trouble,” Lightfoot warned. “Maybe get a friend to refuel with you or something. I don’t know where that Hypervolt fellow went, but you need someone like that to watch out for you.”

“Trust me, sir, I’m fine without someone like him,” Cliffjumper retorted as he took the fuel he’d brought and headed out. Despite his words, it seemed like everyone was trying to make a point now.

 _Don’t be alone, Cliffjumper! Find a friend, Cliffjumper! Is this Primus’ idea of a joke?_ he wondered irritably as he sat at one of the tables and rifled through his chrome-cakes and circuitmon rolls. _Whatever it is, I don’t like it!_

 _Then find a friend or two and maybe it’ll stop,_ another voice in him needled.

“How am I supposed to do that?” he grumbled under his vents, sipping the energon cube he’d brought. Though he had been reveling in the fact that his credit depository was fully stocked, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy this cube right now. “It’s not as if a friend is going to appear for me and offer to help me out.”

Frag it, Brawn and his pace had done just that and he’d pushed them away. Even so, their offer had been reluctant; they had been guilted into helping him by way of his sire, thought Skydive hadn’t done it consciously. He had simply assumed, based on what he saw.

Cliffjumper had made assumptions too, based on what he’d seen in Hypervolt. Even so, it wasn’t hard to recall the stranger he’d interrogated who had called him paranoid, saying he wouldn’t get far in business. The latter, at least, had been true, but did that make the former true too? Was he too paranoid now to achieve anything important?

What had he seen and what had his sire seen which made their assumptions so easy to reach?

“Cliffjumper!”

He looked up at his name, growling in frustration upon seeing Brawn leading his swarm toward him. “What, now you’re _all_ coming to have at me? Did my manager tell you where to find me?” he groaned, throwing himself onto his feet and planting his hands on his hips. “Listen, I get the message: apparently I shouldn’t’ve left you in Solus without pointing you back toward the station. What do you want me to say, sorry? Okay, sorry I did that. Move along.”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Brawn shot back. “Actually we’re, uh…” He paused, features sharpening momentarily with a frown. “We understand why you did that and we came to a decision.”

“Not to harass me about it?” Cliffjumper prompted, tossing a note of hope into his voice.

“Well, yes,” Huffer confirmed, “cos we thought it through and we’re wondering if you would be willing to give us a solid chance to make it up to you—a lifelong chance, you understand.”

Cliff was only partially paying attention, busy sweeping up his debris to dispose of. “A life debt, huh? A life debt doesn’t really make sense since _I_ was the one who left _you_ , but if you really feel that bad about…whatever you feel bad about…whatever you want, as long as you don’t get in my way.”

“I don’t think you’re getting it,” Windcharger began.

“No, really, just do what you want. S’not like you need my say-so to do anything.” Gesturing with his free hand at them, he added, “So long as I don’t have to see you on a regular basis, we can just forget anything that happened.” It was the only form of making amends that he could presently think of, so that should be enough to satisfy him. To his surprise and annoyance, however, Windcharger sighed crossly.

“You’re _really_ not getting it!”

“And neither are you!” Cliffjumper finally snapped. “I give a pass, you take it. We start over. You’re friendly, I’m friendly—”

“That’s just the point!” Brawn burst out. “We want to start over completely and move on to what’s more important for you and us, so we wanted to know if you would take the time you need and think over becoming our pa—”

“Okay, okay!” Cliff cut him off. _All this because they want to be pals?_ “I don’t need to think it over! If that’s what you want, I’ll do it! I _might_ even do it with no questions asked. You happy?” Taking note of their astounded features, he lifted a hand. “I solemnly swear I won’t recant on it, Primes’ honor. But I’m doing it later. Now I have to get back to work.” He pivoted, tossing his leftovers in a disposal chute, and managed to get a few yards away before Windcharger pursued, calling after him:

“I haven’t actually witnessed something like this before, but I’m pretty sure when you say yes, it starts then and there.”

“Well, since it’s a lifelong offer, it starts when I say it does, right?” Cliffjumper sighed. “I call on you for a favor, you call on me for—drinks or something. I could buy drinks sometimes, since I got my depository reimbursed.”

“To be honest, while we definitely won’t mind the drinks,” Windcharger admitted, “we only planned on having you.”

At that, picking up on the other mech’s oddly changed tone, Cliffjumper stopped up short, whirling around and finding Windcharger immediately behind him. “Having…me?” he echoed. “Wait, having me for what?”

“It depends on what you want to be from now on, **quanidre** ,” Windcharger mused, glancing back with a shrug. “Brawn and Huffer think we’re ready for whatever you can throw at us—”

“Wait, wait,” Cliffjumper stammered again, something catching in his throat. “Wh—What did you call me?”

Windcharger scoffed, as though unsure why he was asking. “The title you just claimed.”

Processor and spark racing, Cliffjumper took a few steps back. “Hold the fraggin’—when did I claim anything?”

Slumping impatiently, Windcharger declared, “We asked you for the lifelong chance to prove ourselves worthy. _You_ said you didn’t need to think about it, that you had already decided and that you wouldn’t recant, by the Primes. You settled it, so I may as well get used to calling you that, right?”

Cliffjumper suddenly felt the need to hold onto something, but there was nothing nearby except the mech in front of him, so he gripped Windcharger’s shoulders, mimicking dumbly, “Worthy?”

“Okay, you’re not stupid or glitched, so clearly you’re trying to embarrass me by making me spell it out for you! Fine, I will!” Windcharger declared, shrugging away and tapping Cliff’s chest sternly. “It’s an _oath_. We know where you’re coming from—we’ve all been through it in some way or another—and if it weren’t for each other, some of us would probably be dead and anyone else left would be utterly abandoned. No one deserves that life—not even you, despite how you might _think_ you want it. We’ve all been there too, thinking we can do it by ourselves. We couldn’t and we don’t want to watch you risk trying that. No matter how long it takes, it ends up fragging mechs like us. So we’re promising to be there for you. That’s what pace-mates do…Primes’ honor.”

 _Pace-mates_. Cliffjumper felt his entire sensory net chill over at the words, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The art of speaking had completely disappeared from his memory, but he was able to latch onto one word to describe this minute.

It was… _humbling_. He didn’t dare muster either anger or gratitude for that, lest he choose the wrong one. Right now, he just wanted time to stop so he could find the words to tell them…But what should he tell them? What _could_ he tell them? No one had done this for him before, not even his creators. Skydive and Overbright had promised him things, but this wasn’t a promise. This was an oath, just as Windcharger said—a pledge.

_They just pledged themselves to me. They—they think I just pledged myself to them._

“Why…why would you do that?” he gasped, hoping against hope that his vents wouldn’t hitch.

Windcharger glanced back at the others a second time. “Because mechs like us do best when we stick together. If we can’t accept someone who’s been where we are, why should we expect that of people who haven’t?”

“So—so this is so you can get others to accept you?” Cliffjumper murmured. “So you can prove you’re normal, like them?”

“I don’t think that was ever a possibility,” Windcharger pointed out ruefully. “No, Cliff, this is so you’ll know we’ll accept you, even if you’re not normal like them. I could ask them to let you think it over—a **culicit** period. It’ll give you some time to figure out where you belong.”

Completely of their own volition, Cliff’s optics started burning and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He was sure Gears hadn’t meant it as Windcharger did—or had he? Were they really crazy enough to consider, even _want_ a pace-mate like him? They _had_ to be crazy to want him…which led to the realization that a chance with a ‘normal’ pace probably wouldn’t be coming any time soon and if it did, he could never be sure he would pay enough attention to see it.

“Like I said before, I don’t need to think about it,” he blurted out, stopping Windcharger as he turned toward the other three. The **trilitare** raised an eyebrow and Cliffjumper suddenly felt very small and shy. He did his best not to show it, straightening and pointing out, “No reason to pretend to be something I’m not. That’s what mechs like Hype are for.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Windcharger concurred.

On shaky legs, Cliffjumper followed him toward Brawn, Huffer, and Gears—these frustrating, argumentative, stubborn _pace-mates_ of his who were astonishingly like him. He wondered if that would end up being a blessing or a curse, but there was only one way to find out. If it was a curse, he had a feeling they would be eager to fight until they either compromised or backed down, just as he would. Either way, he would have someone to fight with, in all senses of those words; he would fight with _and_ for them until something gave, whether that was him or the pace itself.

One chance. He would give the idea of a pace this one chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end! Bout time Cliff got himself sorted XD


	23. Epilogue

Much changed in the time that followed Cliffjumper’s acceptance of the mechs who were so much like him. As more time passed with Windcharger under intense scrutiny, Brawn realized it would be best if he relocated his pace to a home safer for all of them, with a room for each. Because of Cliffjumper’s social status and with the help of his creators, it was made so and the pace-leader had no need to find a second job.

Though it was a farther commute to their worksites in Nexus, Cliffjumper’s house in Epistemus suited them quite nicely. Their host appreciated the idea of new memories to be made in this home with people he could grow to trust. Though Brawn and Huffer chose to remain roommates, Gears and Windcharger each filled their own room and were allowed some much-needed time apart; they grew only closer because of it.

All had their share of arguments with their new pace-mate. Some fights he won and some he was forced to surrender. Gradually, very gradually, he came to expect the unexpected out of his pace, but even then there was something he learned each orn to surprise him. He learned bits and pieces of the hard pasts his mates had been treated to and did his best not to push when they withdrew; all of it would come out in time. He had to trust that.

There were many things he would come to trust, given time. Time he was given. Vorns passed and through anything and everything, no matter how Cliff hurt them, the pace stood by him. Brawn would be their leader no matter how he was questioned; he lived up to his name in far too many ways to back down. Huffer would worry enough for all of them and more often than not, his predictions would turn out to be right and they would be spared some grief. If Gears wasn’t the start of a fight but he became involved, he would most likely end it on his own terms—usually with an open hand to the helm—but Windcharger, negotiator, would often inform the opponents how ridiculous they were being before it reached that point.

All in all, there was very little they would change. Unbeknownst to the pace, however, their leader felt a tingle of disquiet in his spark. When he was sure he wouldn’t be missed, Brawn would steal quietly into the hall and walk its length, trying to find the source of his trouble. It was a familiar feeling, the one that often warned him something was coming, but the vorns that had passed were relatively peaceful. When he did finally discover the sign before his optics, he swore to keep it to himself.

Gears, Windcharger, and Cliffjumper all recharged alone. Brawn and Huffer still shared a room; it was a long-forged habit by now. One room was still there to be filled. He swallowed, striding into the empty space and studying it intently. Now that he knew what was coming, he would have to be on his guard, but he couldn’t help laughing softly and listening to its echo.

“We’re wide open for you, my **quiendus**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed "Born For Adversity" as much as I've enjoyed writing it! It was a bumpy ride, but a pleasure. Thank you so much to all of my faithful commenters; you make my day, everyone!
> 
> Keep all eyes and optics open, friends, and you might spot the work of a busy little Bumblebee...


End file.
